THE  WAY  OF 
THE   STRONG 


RIDGWELL   CULLUM 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  STRONG 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 


THE  TWINS  OF  SUFFERING  CREEK 
THE   NIGHT-RIDERS 
THE    ONE-WAY   TRAIL 
THE   TRAIL   OF    THE   AXE 
THE  SHERIFF  OF  DYKE   HOLE 
THE  WATCHERS   OF   THE   PLAINS 


THE  MUZZLE  OF  A   REVOLVER  WAS   COVERING  HIM 


THE  WAY  OF 
THE  STRONG 


BY 

RIDGWELL  CULLUM 

:i 

AUTHOR  OF 

'THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  AXE,"  "THE  WATCHERS  OF  THE  PLAINS, 
"THE  NIGHT-RIDERS,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  COMPANY 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 
PRINTED    IN    IT.    S.    A. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I  ON   SIXTY-MILE   CREEK 1 

II  THE    ROOF    OF    THE    NORTHERN    WORLD 14 

III  THE    DRIVING    FORCE 24 

IV  LEO 33 

V  THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH 38 

VI  ALL-MASTERING    PASSION 42 

VII        DEAD     FIRES 50 

VIII       SI-WASH     CHUCKLES 55 

IX       IN    SAN    SABATANO 62 

X       A    PROMISE 69 

XI       TWO    STRANGERS    IN    SAN    SABATANO 76 

PART  II 

I       AFTER    EIGHTEEN    YEARS 91 

II  ALEXANDER     HENDRIE 103 

III  THE    PENALTY 110 

IV  THE     BLINDING     FIRES 120 

V       IN    THE    SPRINGTIME 126 

VI  LIFE   THROUGH    OTHER   EYES ' 133 

VII  HAPPY    DAYS 141 

V 

•' 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

VIII  ANGUS    HEARS    SOME     TALK  ...  .................  149 

IX  THE    WHEAT    TRUST  ..........................  155 

x  MONICA'S  FALSE  STEP  ........................  163 

XI  WHICH    DEALS    WITH    A    CHANCE    MEETING  ........  170 

XII  THE    CLEAN    SLATE  ...........................  177 

xiii  HENDRIE'S  RETURN  ..........................  183 

xiv  A  MAN'S  HELL  ...............................  186 

XV  PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS  ........................  190 

XVI  IN     THE     MOONLIGHT  .........................  201 

XVII  PAYING    THE    PRICE  ..........................  208 


XVIH       A  MAN'S  HONOR 


XIX  THE   RETURN  OF  ALEXANDER  HENDRIE  ...........  220 

XX  THE     VERDICT  ..............................  .  230 

PART  III 

I  THE    MARCH    OF    TIME  .  .  .  .  v  ...................  234 

II  WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  .....................  244 

III  TWO     LETTERS  ..............................  259 

IV  ON     THE     RAILROAD  ..........................  268 

v  A  YOUNG  GIRL'S  PURPOSE  .....................  279 

VI  IN    TORONTO  ................................  289 

VII  THE     DECISION  ..............................  300 

VIII  THE   SHADOW    OF   WAR  ........................  304 

IX  CAPITAL    AND    LABOR  ..................  .  .  315 


CONTENTS  vii 


CHAP. 

X  STRIKE    TROUBLES    SPREADING.  ...  ..............  327 

xi  LEYBURN'S   INSPIRATION  ......................  336 

XII  HENDRIE     SELLS  .............................  346 

XIII  FRANK    LEARNS    HIS    DUTY  .....................  355 

XIV  THE    STRIKE  ................................  364 

XV  PHYLLIS    GOES    IN    SEARCH    OF    FRANK  ............  375 

XVI  THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE  .........................  388 

XVII  A    RAID  ....................................  396 

XVIII  HIS    BACK    TO    THE   WALL  ......................  404 

XIX  TWO     MEN  ..................................  413 

XX  THE    STORY    OF    LEO  ..........................  421 

xxi  HENDRIE'S  WAY.  ,                                                          .  .435 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  MUZZLE  OF  A  REVOLVER  WAS  COVERING  HIM         Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

THEN     CAME     HER     ARRIVAL    AT     DEEP    WILLOWS  144 


THE    MAN    LEAPED    FROM    HIS    SEAT    AND    FACED 

ABOUT  216 


PHYLLIS    CAUGHT     HIS    HANDS    AND    HELD    THEM 

TIGHTLY  386 


THE    WAY   OF    THE    STRONG 


PART  I 

* "     *       **<•/*•    •**•*• 
•    *  •  *  *   •  *i  °  ' 

CHAPTER    I 

ON   SIXTY-MILE   CREEK 

IT  was  a  grim,  gray  day ;  a  day  which  plainly  told  of  the 
passing  of  late  fall  across  the  border  line  of  the  fierce 
northern  winter.  Six  inches  of  snow  had  fallen  during  the 
night,  and  the  leaden  overcast  of  the  sky  threatened  many 
more  inches  yet  to  fall. 

Five  great  sled  dogs  crouched  in  their  harness,  with 
quarters  tucked  under  them  and  forelegs  outspread.  They 
were  waiting  the  long  familiar  command  to  "mush";  an 
order  they  had  not  heard  since  the  previous  winter. 

Their  brief  summer  leisure  had  passed,  lost  beneath  the 
white  pall  which  told  of  weary  toil  awaiting  them  in  the 
immediate  future.  Unlike  the  humans  with  whom  they  were 
associated,  however,  the  coming  winter  held  no  terrors  for 
them.  It  was  the  normal  condition  under  which  the  sled 
dog  performed  its  life's  work. 

The  load  on  the  sled  was  nearing  completion.  The  tough- 
looking,  keen-eyed  man  bestowed  his  chattels  with  a  care  and 
skill  which  told  of  long  experience,  and  a  profound  knowledge 
of  the  country  through  which  he  had  to  travel.  Silently 
he  passed  back  and  forth  between  the  sled  and  the  weather- 
battered  shelter  which  had  been  his  home  for  more  than 
three  years.  His  moccasined  feet  gave  out  no  sound;  his 
voice  was  silent  under  the  purpose  which  occupied  all  his 
thought.  He  was  leaving  the  desert  heart  of  the  Yukon  to 
face  the  perils  of  the  winter  trail.  He  was  about  to  embark 
for  the  storm-riven  shores  of  the  Alaskan  coast. 

A  young  woman  stood  silently  by,  watching  his  labors  with 
*2 


2  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  voiceless  interest  of  those  who  live  the  drear  life  of  silent 
places.  Her  interest  was  consuming,  as  her  handsome  brown 
eyes  told.  Her  strong,  young  heart  was  full  of  a  profound 
envy;  and  a  sort  of  despairing  longing  came  near  to  filling 
her  eyes  with  unaccustomed  tears.  The  terrors  of  this  man's 
journey  would  have  been  small  enough  for  her  if  only  she 
could  get  out  of  this  wilderness  of  desolation  to  which  she 
had  willingly  condemned  herself. 

Ker  heart  a«jlK-d,  and  her  despair  grew  as  she  watched. 
But  she  knew  only  too  well  that  her  limitless  prison  was  of 
fi'vv-  6wii  seeking,  .as  was  her  sharing  of  the  sordid  lot  of  the 
man  she  had  elected  to  follow.  More  than  that  she  knew 
that  the  sentence  she  had  passed  upon  herself  carried  with 
it  the  terror  of  coming  motherhood  in  the  midst  of  this 
desolate  world,  far  from  the  reach  of  help,  far  from  the 
companionship  of  her  sex. 

At  last  the  man  paused,  surveying  his  work.  He  tested 
the  raw-hide  bonds  which  held  his  load;  he  glanced  at  the 
space  still  left  clear  in  the  sled,  with  measuring  eye,  and 
stood  raking  at  his  beard  with  powerful,  unclean  fingers.  It 
was  this  pause  that  drove  the  woman's  crowding  feelings  to 
sudden  speech. 

"Heavens,  how  I  wish  I  were  going  with  you.  Tug!" 
she  cried. 

The  man  lifted  his  sharp  eyes  questioningly. 

"Do  you,  Audie?"  he  said,  in  a  metallic  voice,  in  which 
there  was  no  softening.  Then  he  shook  his  head.  "It'll  be 
a  hell  of  a  trip.  Guess  I'd  change  places  with  you  readily 
enough." 

"You  would?"  the  girl  laughed  mirthlessly.  "You're  going 
down  with  a  big  'wad'  of  gold  to — to  a  land  of — plenty.  Oh, 
God,  how  I  hate  this  wilderness !" 

The  man  called  Tug  surveyed  her  for  a  moment  with  eyes 
long  since  hardened  by  the  merciless  struggle  of  the  cruel 
Yukon  world.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"It  sounds  good  when  you  put  it  that  way.  But  there's 
miles  to  go  before  I  reach  the  'land  of  plenty.'  "  He  laughed 
shortly.  "I've  got  to  face  the  winter  trail,  and  we  all  know 
what  that  means.  And  more  than  that.  I'm  packing  a  sick 
man  with  me,  and  I've  got  to  keep  him  warm  the  whole  way. 
It's  a  guess,  and  a  poor  one,  if  he  don't  die  by  the  way. 


ON    SIXTY-MILE    CREEK  3 

That's  why  I'm  going.  Say,  he's  my  partner,  and  I've  got  to 
get  him  through."  He  laughed  again.  "Oh,  it's  not  senti- 
ment. He's  useful  to  me,  and  so  I  want  to  save  him  if  I 
can." 

Tug's  manner  was  something  like  the  coldly  rugged  view 
of  the  distant  peaks  which  marked  the  horizon  on  every  hand. 
The  girl  watching  his  sturdy  figure,  with  its  powerful  head 
and  hard,  set  face,  understood  something  of  this.  She  under- 
stood that  he  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  product  of 
that  harsh,  snow-bound  world.  He  was  strong,  and  she  knew 
it ;  and  strength  appealed  to  her.  It  was  the  only  thing  that 
was  worth  while  in  such  a  country. 

"You  can't  save  Charlie,"  she  said  decidedly.  "They  tell 
you  you  can't  get  consumption  in  this  country — but,  well, 
I'd  say  you  can  get  everything  that  makes  life  hell.  He's  got 
it ;  and  a  chill  on  the  way  will  add  pneumonia  to  his  trouble, 
and  then —  She  made  a  significant  gesture. 

"Maybe  you're  right,"  Tug  admitted.  Then  he  shrugged, 
and,  moving  over  to  one  of  the  dogs,  busy  chewing  its  raw- 
hide harness,  kicked  it  brutally.  "Anyway  he's  got  to  take 
his  chance,  same  as  we  all  have." 

The  girl  sighed. 

"Yes."  She  was  thinking  of  herself.  "When  do  you 
start?" 

The  man  looked  at  the  sky.  Then  he  glanced  down  at  the 
land  sloping  away  to  the  distant  banks  of  a  creek,  which  in 
a  less  monstrous  country  would  have  borne  the  prouder 
denomination  of  "river." 

"When  your  Leo  comes  up  to  help  me  pack  Charlie  into 
the  sled.  Say,  isn't  that  him  coming  along  up  now?"  he 
added,  shading  his  eyes.  "This  snow's  got  me  dazzled  for 
a  bit." 

The  girl  peered  out  over  the  white  world.  It  was  an 
impressive  view.  Far  as  the  eye  could  see  a  great  ring  of 
gray-crested  hills  spread  out,  their  slopes  massed  with 
patches  of  forest,  and  the  gleaming  beds  of  ancient  glaciers. 
Just  now  the  cold  of  coming  winter  held  pride  of  place, 
and  the  dark  woodlands  were  crowned  with  the  feathery 
whiteness  of  newly  fallen  snow.  But  though  impressive  the 
outlook  was  unyielding  in  its  severity,  and  the  girl  shud- 
dered and,  for  relief,  was  glad  to  return  to  speech. 


4  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Yes;  he's  coming  along  up." 

Tug  watched  the  distant  figure  for  some  thoughtful 
moments. 

"He's  a  great  feller,"  he  said  at  last.  But  there  was  no 
real  appreciation  in  his  tone.  Then  he  laughed.  "I  should 
say  he'd  need  to  be  a  great  feller  to  get  a  good-looker  girl 
to  come  right  along  up  to  this  devil's  playground  with  him." 

Audie's  troubled  eyes  softened. 

"He's  a  great  fellow,"  she  said  simply. 

Tug  laughed  again. 

"I  s'pose  that's  why  they  call  him  'Leo.'  Guess  most 
fellers'  nicknames  have  a  meaning  suggested  by  their  char- 
acters. Leo-Lion.  Maybe  they're  right.  I'd  sooner  call 
him  'Bull.'  " 

"Why?" 

Audie  was  interested.  Yet  she  understood  there  was  no 
sympathy,  and  little  enough  friendliness  in  this  hard, 
cynical  man. 

"Just  his  way  of  tackling  life."  Tug  watched  the  great 
figure  as  it  came  slowly  up  the  slope.  His  eyes  were  keen, 
shrewd,  speculative. 

"He  does  tackle  it,"  agreed  Audie  warmly. 

"Yes.  He  gets  right  out  to  meet  things.  He's  a  fighter. 
I'd  say  he's  a  born  'kicker.'  He  doesn't  fancy  the  things 
that  come  easy.  He's  after  a  big  piece  of  money,  but"- 
he  laughed — "he  don't  want  it  easy.  That's  where  we're 
different.  It  seems  to  me  there's  enough  weakness  in  the 
world  for  a  man  to  live  on,  and  there's  surely  enough  money 
for  the  overflow  to  dribble  into  your  pockets,  if  you  only 
hold  them  open  right.  That's  my  way;  but  it's  not  his. 
Say,"  he  quizzically  surveyed  the  girl's  flushed  face,  "guess 
you'd  follow  him  to  hell — if  he  asked  you  ?" 

Audie  shrugged  her  handsome  shoulders,  but  her  eyes 
were  soft. 

"I've  followed  him  here,  which  is  the  cold  edition  of  it. 
I  don't  guess  I'd  need  persuading  to  get  up  against  the 
warmer  side." 

"No.     But  it's  taking  life  hard." 

"Guess  we  have  to  take  life  hard  sometimes.  It's  mostly 
the  way  of  things.  Life  comes  by  degrees.  And  you  can't 
help  any  of  it.  Three  years  ago  I  was  acting  in  a  New  York 


ON    SIXTY-MILE    CREEK  5 

theater,  getting  a  hundred  dollars  a  week  salary.  I  wore 
beautiful  clothes.  I  had  heaps  of  friends,  men  and  women. 
I  lived  on  the  best,  and  never  knew  what  it  was  to  cook  a 
meal,  or  do  a  chore.  Two  years  ago  I  was  'barnstorming' 
at  Dawson  in — well,  they  call  it  a  theater.  Now — now  I 
am  here." 

"With  a  man  we  call  'Leo.' "  Tug  studied  the  girl's 
beautiful  face,  her  superb  figure,  that  would  not  be  denied 
even  under  the  coarse  clothing  she  was  wearing.  She  did 
not  appeal  to  him  as  a  woman.  She  was  too  pronounced  a 
type.  There  was  a  decided  boldness  about  her.  Even  her 
beauty  was  aggressive.  But  he  was  sufficiently  observant 
to  be  interested  in  the  woman's  reason  lying  behind  her 
actions. 

"And  why  not?"  demanded  Audie,  with  a  quick  flash  of 
her  big  eyes. 

Tug  smiled  coldly. 

"Just  so.     Why  not?" 

"Maybe  I  haven't  given  up  as  much  as  you  might  think." 
Audie's  eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  the  approaching 
figure.  They  were  alight  with  the  fires  of  passion.  "Leo 
is  bound  to  make  good.  He  can't  fail.  That's  the  man. 
He  would  win  out  under  any  circumstances." 

Tug  nodded. 

"Sure.     By  fair  means  or— 

"He'll  win  out,"  cried  Audie  sharply. 

Tug's  broad  shoulders  lifted  indifferently. 

"Sure.     He'll  win  out." 

It  was  not  the  man's  tone;  it  was  not  the  man's  words; 
it  was  his  manner  that  made  Audie  long  to  strike  him.  His 
cynical  expression  was  infuriating  as  he  moved  off  to  meet 
the  approaching  Leo. 

Audie  watched  him  go  with  brooding,  resentful  eyes.  She 
saw  the  two  meet,  and,  in  a  moment,  the  sun  broke  through 
the  clouds  of  her  anger.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  when 
she  beheld  the  contrast  between  the  men,  which  so  much 
favored  her  Leo.  A  wave  of  pride  thrilled  her.  In  face 
and  form,  as  well  as  character,  her  man  was  something  of  a 
god  to  her. 

They  came  towards  her,  Leo  moving  with  an  active, 
swinging  stride,  while  the  other  moved  with  the  almost  cat- 


6  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

like  stealth  which  the  use  of  moccasins  ever  give§  their 
wearer.  Leo  was  a  large  man  in  the  early  stages  of  man- 
hood. He  was  twenty-five  years  of  age,  but,  from  the 
unusual  cast  of  his  rugged  features  and  the  steady  light  in 
his  keen  gray  eyes  set  beneath  shaggy,  tawny  brows,  he 
might  well  have  borne  the  burden  of  another  ten.  It  was 
a  wonderful  face.  Such  a  face  as  rarely  fails  to  appeal  to 
a  woman  of  Audie's  type.  As  Tug  had  said,  he  was  a 
fighter;  and  the  fact  was  written  largely  in  every  line  of  his 
features.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  of  passionate  resolve; 
a  man  who  would  not  be  denied  in  anything  he  undertook. 
Nor  was  it  a  harsh  face.  His  eyes  looked  out  with  an  utter 
fearlessness,  but  there  was  a  gleam  in  their  depths  which 
baffled.  Whether  that  latent  fire  was  inspired  by  good  or  evil 
it  would  have  been  impossible  to  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
memory  of  that  strange  light  which  had  inspired  Tug's  doubt. 

For  the  rest  his  physique  was  large  and  extremely 
powerful.  He  wore  a  close,  curling  fair  beard  which  accen- 
tuated the  thrust  of  his  square  chin,  and  from  beneath  his 
slouch  hat  flowed  the  mane  of  waving  hair  which  had  orig- 
inally inspired  his  nickname. 

The  woman  only  had  eyes  for  Leo  as  they  came  up  to 
the  sled,  and  for  the  time  at  least  all  her  troubles  and  regrets 
were  forgotten.  She  had  no  words  to  offer.  She  was  content 
to  be  a  silent  witness.  The  affairs  of  life  in  such  desperate 
regions  must  be  left  in  men's  hands,  her  woman's  sphere 
extended  only  to  the  inside  of  their  squalid  home. 

She  watched  Leo  pass  a  critical  eye  over  the  sled.  Then 
his  deep  voice  expressed  his  approval. 

"You've  fixed  things  neat,"  he  said,  without  great  interest. 
Then  his  eyes  settled  upon  the  stout  canvas  bag  lashed 
securely  on  the  forepart  of  the  sled,  and  his  whole 
expression  instantly  changed. 

The  change  was  as  curious  as  it  was  sudden.  All  uncon- 
cern had  passed,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  a  deep  fire  which 
told  of  some  straining  emotion  stirred  in  the  depths  of  his 
soul.  He  pointed  at  the  bag.  Nor  was  his  hand  quite 
steady. 

"That's  a  great  'wad,'  "  he  said.  Then,  half  to  himself, 
"a  dandy  'wad.' ' 

"Yes."     Tug  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  parcel  of  gold, 


ON    SIXTY-MILE    CREEK  7 

which  represented  the  result  of  his  and  his  partner's  years 
of  isolation  in  the  white  wilderness  of  the  north.  "It's  a 
goodish  'wad,'  "  he  agreed  with  satisfaction. 

The  bigger  man  was  lost  in  a  profound  contemplation 
of  the  gold  that  was  his  quest  also.  For  a  moment  or  two 
neither  spoke.  Then  Leo  withdrew  his  gaze  with  a  sigh,  and 
turned  to  the  waiting  woman. 

"Here,  catch !"  he  cried.  He  pitched  a  seven-pound  trout, 
which  he  had  just  taken  from  the  creek,  across  to  her. 
"It'll  make  dinner,"  he  added.  "Guess  we'll, not  get  many 
more.  The  creek'll  be  solid  ice  in  a  week."  Then  he 
abruptly  moved  up  towards  Tug's  hut.  "You  best  get 
things  fixed,  and  I'll  bring  Charlie  out." 

Leo's  manner  had  become  all  unconcerned  again.  These 
two  men  were  about  to  pass  out  of  his  life.  The  fact  of 
their  existence,  their  coming  or  going,  had  very  little  real 
interest  for  him.  They  did  not  influence  his  concerns  one 
iota.  But  Tug  left  the  sled  and  followed  him. 

Tug  was  the  first  to  reappear  from  the  hut.  He  was  clad 
for  the  long  trail,  and  bore  in  his  arms  the  pile  of  furs  with 
which  to  shut  out  the  deadly  breath  of  winter  from  the  body 
of  his  sick  partner.  Behind  him  came  Leo  carrying  the 
attenuated  body  of  the  sufferer  as  easily  as  he  might  have 
carried  a  baby. 

He  deposited  his  burden  in  the  sled,  and  looked  on  while 
the  other  buried  the  sick  man  beneath  the  warmth-giving 
furs.  At  last  all  was  in  readiness  and  Tag  stood  up.  His 
whip  was  in  one  hand,  and  his  gee-pole  in  the  other.  He 
was  ready  to  "mush"  his  waiting  team  on. 

"You'll  only  make  the  head  of  the  Shawnee  Trail, 
to-night,"  Leo  said  in  his  confident  way,  after  a  narrow 
inspection  of  the  overcast  sky.  "You're  going  to  get 
snow — bad." 

"We'll  camp  there — if  we  do,"  replied  Tug  cheerfully. 
"If  we  don't — we'll  make  Mt.  Craven,  and  shelter  in  the 
woods." 

Leo  shook  his  head. 

"You'll  only  make  the  head  of  the  Shawnee."  Leo  bent 
over  the  sick  man  to  wish  him  good-bye.  "So  long,"  came 
the  weak  response  from  amidst  the  furs.  Tug  swung  out  his 
whip  and  the  dogs  stood  up  alert. 


8  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"So  long,  folks,"  he  cried.  Then  he  glanced  round  at 
the  woman  with  a  grin.  "Guess  I'm  off  to  that  land  of 
plenty,  Audie." 

The  jest  on  his  lips  became  a  heartless  challenge  under 
which  the  girl  perceptibly  winced.  But  even  if  her  wit  had 
served  her  to  retort,  she  was  given  no  chance.  It  was 
Leo  who  took  him  up  with  a  quickness  of  understanding 
almost  surprising;  and  though  his  manner  was  quite 
without  heat  there  was  a  subtle,  underlying  bite  in  his 
reply. 

"You've  got  to  travel  more  miles  than  one  to  get  there," 
he  said.  "So  long." 

Tug  laughed  without  any  enjoyment. 

"I'd  say  this  country's  a  hell  of  a  piece — from  anywhere/' 
he  retorted. 

He  turned  at  once  and  shouted  at  his  dogs. 

"Ho,  you,  Husky !  Demon !  You,  too,  Pinto !  Mush,  you 
devils !  Mush  on !" 

The  dogs  responded  on  the  instant.  They  strained  at 
their  harness,  and  promptly  leaped  into  a  swift  run,  bearing 
the  laden  sled  away  in  a  dense  flurry  of  soft  snow. 

Leo  and  Audie  looked  after  the  departing  outfit,  until 
the  speeding  sled  reached  the  foot  of  the  long  slope  and 
disappeared  behind  a  snow-laden  scrub  of  undergrowth. 
Then  the  man  stirred. 

"It's  getting  near  food,"  he  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone. 

But  Audie  gave  no  sign  of  hearing  him.  Her  face  was 
turned  away.  She  was  still  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
vanished  sled.  Her  eyes  were  crowded  with  tears,  and  all 
the  old  longing  and  terror  were  upon  her  again. 

"Audie!" 

The  summons  came  without  any  softening.  The  man's 
only  answer  was  a  deep,  choking  sob.  Leo  turned  at  once; 
neither  was  there  any  sign  of  impatience  in  his  voice  as  he 
questioned  her. 

"What  are  you  crying  for?" 

The  sound  of  his  question  broke  the  spell  of  the  woman's 
overwrought  feelings.  She  choked  down  her  sobs  and  her 
tearful  eyes  smiled  round  upon  him,  although  her  cheeks 
were  still  wet. 


ON    SIXTY-MILE    CREEK  9 

"Because  I'm  a  fool.  Because  I've  always  been  a  fool, 
and — always  shall  be." 

Leo  half  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"We're  never  fools  when  we  think  we  are,"  he  said  calmly. 
"The  truth  lies  in  the  reverse." 

Audie  sighed.  Again  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth 
drooped,  and  her  brows  drew  ominously  together. 

"I — I  was  thinking  of — of  the  places  where  he's  going  to. 
I  was  thinking  of  the — the  good  time  he'll  have.  I  was — 
oh,  I  was  thinking  of  the  winter  that's  coming  to  us  here 
and — and  of  what  I've  got  to : 

The  man  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  something  like  a  shadow 
crossed  his  strong  features.  His  gaze  wandered  away 
towards  the  creek,  where  for  so  long  he  had  been  laboring 
to  lay  the  foundations  of  that  wonderful  structure  of  suc- 
cess he  purposed  to  achieve. 

"You're  scared,"  he  said  deliberately,  at  last.  "You're 
scared  to  have  your  baby  up  here — alone."  Then  his  eyes 
came  back  to  her.  "Guess  I  can't  blame  you — no  one  could. 
We — didn't  reckon  on  this."  He  waited  for  a  moment. 
"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked  at  last. 

For  a  brief  moment  the  girl's  big  eyes  brightened  with 
hope.  But  the  moment  passed,  and  tears  again  fell  upon 
her  soft,  round  cheeks. 

"Do?  Oh,  Leo,  I — I  want  to  go  where  there's  light,  and 
— and  hope.  I — I  want  to  go  where  there's  help  for  me." 
She  shuddered.  "Yes,  I'm  scared.  I'm  terrified.  But  it — it 
isn't  only  that.  It's — oh,  I  don't  want  our  baby  to  be  born 
in  this  awful  country.  Think — think  of  its  little  eyes  open- 
ing on — on  this  wilderness.  Besides — 

She  broke  off,  her  tearful  eyes  filled  with  doubt. 

"Besides— what?" 

There  was  no  denying  the  directness  of  this  man's  mind. 

"It— it  doesn't  matter.     I " 

"But  it  does." 

Audie  had  stopped  to  pick  up  the  fish;  but  she  left  it 
where  it  was.  She  understood  the  uselessness  of  further 
denial.  She  had  long  ago  learned  her  lesson.  This  man, 
young  as  he  was,  was  utterly  different  to  all  the  men  she 
had  ever  met.  Sometimes  she  was  afraid  of  him;  sometimes 
she  would  have  given  worlds  never  to  have  set  eyes  on  him. 


10  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  always  she  knew  that  somehow  her  fate  was  linked 
with  his;  and  above  all  she  knew  that  she  loved  him,  and 
under  no  circumstances  would  she  have  had  it  otherwise. 

His  love  for  her  she  never  considered — she  dared  not  con- 
sider it.  In  the  remote  recesses  of  her  woman's  soul, 
rcvesses  hidden  so  well  that  even  she,  herself,  rarely  visited 
them,  recesses  the  contemplation  of  which  filled  her  with 
dread  and  trepidation,  she  held  the  hideous  truth  that  his 
regard  for  her  was  incomparable  with  the  devotion  she 
yielded  to  him.  But  even  with  this  subtle  conviction,  with 
this  painful  truth  ever  vibrant  in  her  happiest  moments, 
she  was  woman  enough  to  be  able  to  thank  her  God  that 
she  was  permitted  to  live  on  the  fringe  of  his  life,  his  only 
companion  in  the  rough  hut  which  was  their  home.  She 
would  have  him  just  as  he  was — yes,  a  thousand  times 
sooner  than  yield  up  the  love  she  bore  him. 

She  knew  now  that  a  crisis  in  their  lives  had  arrived. 
She  knew  that  she  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat.  Therefore 
she  took  her  courage  in  both  her  hands. 

"It's — it's  the  baby,"  she  cried  haltingly.     "He — oh,  yes, 
he,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  boy — will — will  have  no  father,  if— 
if  he  is  born  up  here." 

It  was  out.  She  could  get  no  further ;  and  she  stood  clasp- 
ing her  hands  to  steady  the  trembling  she  had  no  power 
to  check. 

The  verdict  of  this  man,  whom  she  looked  to  as  the  arbiter 
of  her  fate,  was  slow  in  coming.  With  each  passing  moment 
her  apprehension  grew  till  she  longed  to  cry  out  at  the 
torture  of  the  suspense.  He  was  thinking  earnestly,  swiftly. 
He  knew  that  she  had  confronted  him  with  a  problem  that 
might  well  change  his  whole  future.  Therefore  he  con- 
sidered without  haste,  without  the  least  emotion. 

At  last  his  keen  eyes  turned  upon  her  up- turned  face, 
and  what  she  beheld  there  warned  her  of  the  calm  judgment 
he  had  brought  to  bear. 

"Yes,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "And,"  he  went  on,  after 
a  moment,  "maybe  he'd  have  no  mother  either." 

For  a  moment  puzzlement  was  added  to  the  woman's 
trouble. 

"You  mean ?" 

Again   Audie   broke   off.      A    sudden    understanding   had 


ON    SIXTY-MILE    CREEK  11 

come.  His  point  of  view  was  wholly  in  another  direction 
from  hers.  He  was  not  thinking  of  their  moral  obligations 
towards  the  little,  unborn  life.  He  was  thinking  of  her;  of 
what  the  unassisted  birth  in  these  outlands  might  mean 
for  her. 

She  was  startled.  Then  a  rush  of  feeling  swept  over  her 
that  would  not  be  denied. 

"I — I  wasn't  thinking  so  much  of — of  myself,"  she  cried 
eagerly.  "I  meant " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted  her.  "You  meant  we  are  not 
married." 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  it."  She  came  to  him  and  seized  one 
of  liis  strong  hands  in  both  of  hers,  and  her  eyes  were  plead- 
ing up  into  his.  "Oh,  Leo,  don't  you  understand  what  it 
means  to  him?  Won't  you?  I  never  thought  of  it  before. 
How  should  I?  All  I  wanted  in  the  world  was  to  be  with 
you.  All  I  wanted  was  to  be  your  devoted  companion. 
That's  why  I — I  made  you  bring  me  up  here.  Yes.  I  know. 
I  made  you  bring  me.  You  didn't  want  to.  I  knew  then, 
as  I  have  always  known,  as  I  know  now,  that — that  I  was 
merely  a  passing  fancy  to  you.  But  I  did  not  care.  I 
believed  I  could  make  you  love  me.  I  blinded  myself  utterly, 
purposely,  because  I  loved  you.  But  now  I  realize  some- 
thing else.  I  realize  there  is  another  life  to  be  considered. 
A  life  that  is  part  of  us.  It  is  that  which  appalls  me.  Now 
I  see  the  terrible  consequences  of  my  folly,  to  remedy  which 
I  must  add  to  your  burden,  or  give  up  forever  all  the  hap- 
piness that  has  been  mine  since  I  knew  you.  Oh,  Leo,  I 
cannot  bring  a  bastard  into  the  world.  Think  of  it.  The 
terrible  shame  for  the  boy — for  his  mother.  Don't  you  see? 
Give  our  little  one  a  father,  and  never  as  long  as  I  live  will 
I  cross  your  path,  or  make  any  claim  on  you.  You  can  let 
the  memory  of  my  love  lose  itself  amid  all  the  great 
schemes  that  fill  your  thoughts.  All  I  want,  all  I  hope  for 
is  that  you  may  go  on  to  the  success  which  you  desire  more 
than  all  things  in  life,  and  may  God  ever  prosper  you." 

The  man  released  his  hand  deliberately,  but  without 
roughness.  The  calculating  brain  was  still  undisturbed  by 
the  self-sacrifice  of  the  girl.  He  had  solved  the  problem  to 
his  own  satisfaction,  through  the  only  method  he  understood. 

"You  don't  need  to  worry  yourself,  Audie,"  he  said,  in 


12  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

his  blunt  way.  "The  boy — if  he's  a  boy — shall  have  a 
father.  And  I  don't  guess  you  need  to  cut  yourself  out  of 
my  life.  We'll  start  down  this  day  week.  You've  got  to 
face  the  winter  trail,  but  that  can't  be  helped.  We'll  get 
Si-wash's  dogs.  He's  a  good  scout,  and  knows  the  trail 
well.  He'll  take  us  down." 

The  woman's  face  had  suddenly  flooded  with  a  radiant 
happiness,  the  sight  of  which  caused  the  man  to  turn  away. 
In  a  moment  her  thankfulness  broke  out,  spasmodic,  dis- 
jointed, but  from  the  depths  of  her  simple  soul. 

"You  mean  that?"  she  cried.  "You  mean — oh,  may  God 
bless  every  moment  of  your  life,  Leo !  Oh,  thank  God — 
thank  God!" 

She  suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  tears  of 
joy  and  happiness  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

Leo  waited  for  her  emotion  to  pass.  He  stood  gazing 
out  down  at  the  creek.  His  eyes  shone  with  that  peculiar 
fire  which  in  unguarded  moments  would  not  be  denied.  Then 
after  a  few  moments  the  sound  of  sobs  died  down,  and  the 
man  turned. 

There  was  a  marked  change  in  him.  The  fire  in  his  eyes 
was  deep  and  somber.  Audie,  glancing  into  his  face,  knew 
that  he  was  deeply  stirred.  She  knew  that  for  the  first  time 
in  her  companionship  with  him  the  restraint  that  was  always 
his  had  been  relaxed.  The  soul  of  the  man  had  risen  superior 
to  the  domination  of  his  will. 

"Listen  to  me,  Audie,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  grown  suddenly 
thick  with  an  emotion  she  had  never  before  witnessed  in  him. 
"You  said  you  knew  you  were  merely  a  passing  fancy  to  me. 
That's  not  quite  true.  It's  true  I  never  calculated  to  marry 
you.  But  I  liked  you.  I  don't  suppose  I  loved  you  in  the 
way  you  would  have  me  love  you.  No,  I  liked  you,  because — 
you  are  a  woman.  Just  a  woman  full  of  all  the  extraordi- 
nary follies  of  which  some  of  your  sex  are  capable,  but — a 
woman.  It's  difficult,  but  I  must  tell  you.  I've  always 
known  that  the  time  would  come  when  we  must  have  a 
straight  talk.  I  have  no  real  love  to  give  to  any  woman. 
My  whole  mind  and  body  are  absorbed  in  another  direction, 
\\liic-h  is  utterly  opposed  to  all  sentiment.  What  shall  I 
call  it?  Ambition?  It's  scarcely  the  word.  It's  more  than 
that.  It's  a  passion."  His  eyes  shone  with  deep  feeling. 


ON    SIXTY-MILE    CREEK  13 

"A  passion  that's  greater  than  any  love  man  ever  gave  to 
woman. 

"Yes,  all  my  life  I've  fostered  it,"  he  went  on  abstractedly, 
"from  away  back  in  the  days  of  early  boyhood.  God  knows 
where  I  got  it  from.  My  father  and  mother  were  respect- 
able, dozy,  middle-class  folks  in  New  England,  without  a 
thought  beyond  the  doings  of  their  little  town.  They  had 
no  ambition.  Their  life  drove  me  frantic.  I  must  get 
out  and  do.  I  must  take  my  place  in  the  battle  of  life,  and 
win  my  way  to  the  forefront  among  the  ranks  of  our 
country's  millionaires.  That  is  the  passionate  dream  of  my 
life  which  I  intend  to  achieve.  That  is  the  wild  ambition 
that  has  eaten  into  my  very  bones.  It  is  part  of  me.  It 
is  me.  It  is  a  driving  force  which  I  have  created  in  myself — 
and  now  it  is  beyond  my  control.  I  am  the  slave  of  my 
self-created  passion,  as  surely  as  any  drug  fiend  is  a  slave 
to  the  wiles  of  his  torturer.  I  could  not  defy  its  will  if  I 
desired  to.  But  I  do  not  desire  to.  Do  you  understand  me? 
Do  you  understand  when  I  say  I  have  no  love  to  give  to  any 
woman?  I  am  eaten  up  with  this  passion  which  leaves  no 
room  in  mind  or  heart  for  any  other. 

"Maybe  you  think  me  a  heartless  brute,"  he  continued 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "without  feeling,  or  sympathy. 
Perhaps  you're  right.  Maybe  I  am.  I  don't  know.  Nor 
do  I  care.  I  doubt  if  you  can  possibly  understand  me. 
I  don't  understand  myself.  All  I  know  is,  nothing  I  can 
remove  will  ever  stand  in  the  way  of  my  achievement.  I 
have  no  real  scruples,  and  I  want  you  to  know  all  this  now — 
now  with  our  whole  futures  lying  before  us.  This  problem 
is  not  as  difficult  as  you  seem  to  think.  „  There  is  no  par- 
ticular reason  why  I  should  not  marry  you.  On  the  contrary 
there  is  every  reason  why  I  should.  I  have  had  a  good  year, 
so  good  that  it  might  astonish  you  if  you  knew  the  amount 
of  gold  I  have  taken  out  of  the  creek.  We  shall  go  down 
to  the  coast  with  twice  the  amount  Tug  possesses.  Tug 
never  knew  how  well  I  was  doing." 

He  smiled  faintly. 

"However,"  he  hastened  on,  "my  plan  had  been  to  leave 
here  next  spring,  to  avoid  the  winter  journey,  that  was 
all.  There  will  be  no  work  done  all  the  coming  winter.  So 
what  does  it  matter  if  we  make  the  journey  six  months 


14  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

earlier?  It  will  help  you,  and  does  not  hurt  me.  So— 
don't  worry  yourself  any  more  about  it,  but  just  make  your 
preparations  for  departure  this  day  week." 

The  man's  usual  calm  had  returned  by  the  time  he  finished 
speaking.  He  had  settled  the  matter  in  his  own  way,  and 
his  manner  left  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

Audie  understood.  Her  eyes  were  alight  with  a  rapturous 
joy  and  devotion,  but  she  realized  how  little  he  desired  the 
outburst  of  gratitude  she  was  longing  to  pour  into  his 
unwilling  ears.  In  spite  of  the  coldness  with  which  he  had 
told  her  he  could  never  love  her,  this  was  probably  the 
happiest  moment  of  her  life.  She  held  herself  tightly  and 
strove  to  speak  in  the  same  calm  manner  he  had  used  at 
the  last. 

"Thank  you,  Leo,"  she  said  simply.  Then  she  added  with 
an  emotion  that  would  not  be  denied,  "I  pray  God  to 
bless  you." 

Leo  nodded. 

"Right  ho !"  he  said  coldly.  Then  he  picked  up  the  trout. 
"Guess  we'll  get  food." 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    ROOF    OF    THE   NORTHERN   WORLD 

SI-WASH  was  a  great  scout;  he  was  also  an  Indian  of 
independence  and  decision,  both  qualities  very  necessary 
in  the  snow-bound  country  such  as  he  lived  in.  But  Si-wash 
understood  men  very  well;  particularly  the  curiously 
assorted  samples  of  whitemen  who  sought  the  remoteness  of 
the  Yukon  in  those  early  days  when  the  news  of  its  wealth 
was  only  just  beginning  to  percolate  through  to  civilized 
countries.  It  was  for  this  reason  he  was  as  putty  in  the 
hands  of  the  man  Leo. 

When  consulted  Si-wash  protested  against  Leo's  contem- 
plated journey  over  the  winter  trail  to  the  coast,  especially 
with  the  added  burden  of  a  white  woman.  He  drew  a 
picture  of  every  difficulty  and  danger  his  fertile  brain  could 
imagine,  and  laid  it  before  the  cold  eyes  of  the  big  man. 
Encouraged  by  the  silence  with  which  his  stories  were 


THE    ROOF    OF    THE    NORTHERN    WORLD  15 

received  he  finally  threw  an  added  decision  in  his  definite 
refusal  to  hire  his  dogs,  and  conduct  the  party  over  the 
perilous  road. 

Then  Leo  rose  from  his  seat  on  the  floor  of  Si-wash's  hut, 
and  invited  him  to  visit  his  workings  on  the  creek  bank. 
Si-wash  went,  glad  that  he  had  been  able  to  dissuade  this 
man  who  possessed  such  cold  eyes,  and  so  unsmiling  a  face. 

At  the  creek  Leo  spoke  quite  seriously. 

"Si-wash,"  he  said,  as  they  stood  beside  the  frozen,  snow- 
laden  stream,  "I  am  disappointed  in  you.  I  have  brought 
you  here  to  show  you  your  grave.  There  it  is — under  the 
ice.  If  you  don't  hire  yourself  and  dogs  to  me,  if  you  don't 
accompany  us  to  the  coast,  I'll  drown  you  in  the  water  under 
that  ice,  where  it's  so  cold  that  all  the  fires  of  hell,  where 
your  spirit  will  surely  go,  will  never  be  able  to  thaw  you  out, 
though  you  remain  there  forever,  as  you  undoubtedly  will." 

Si-wash  both  liked  and  feared  Leo.  But  he  hated  cold 
water,  in  fact  water  of  any  sort,  and  feared  talk  of  hell  still 
more ;  so  there  was  no  further  discussion.  Si-wash  accepted 
his  money  in  advance;  and,  nearly  a  month  later,  the  tra- 
velers were  scaling  the  perilous  heights  of  the  watershed 
which  is  really  the  roof  of  the  northern  world. 

Once  foot  is  set  on  the  long  winter  trail,  all  rest  of  mind 
and  body  is  left  behind.  Days  and  nights,  alike,  become 
one  long  nightmare  of  unease.  Every  hour  of  the  day  carries 
its  threat  of  danger.  Every  foot  of  the  way  is  beset  by 
shoals  for  the  feet  of  the  unwary.  And  the  night — the  long 
northern  night — is  a  painful  dream  crowded  with  exagger- 
ated pictures  of  dangers  so  narrowly  escaped  during  waking, 
and  vivid  suggestions  of  added  terrors  which  the  morning 
light  may  reveal. 

It  is  called  the  Shawnee  Trail;  vain  enough  appellation. 
There  is  no  trail ;  there  never  has  been  a  trail ;  nor  will  there 
ever  be  a  trail,  so  long  as  the  northern  winter  holds  its  fierce 
sway  in  due  season.  It  is  just  a  trackless  wilderness,  claim- 
ing thoroughfare  by  reason  of  the  impassability  of  the  rest 
of  the  country  in  that  region. 

There  is  no  room  for  life  in  such  a  world,  for  there  is  no 
rest  or  relief.  Existence  is  an  endless  struggle  against  the 
overwhelming  odds  of  an  outlaw  nature.  The  great  white 
land  is  broken  and  torn.  It  rises  and  falls,  or  plunges 


16  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

precipitately  in  the  manner  of  a  storm-swept  ocean;  but 
ever  the  journey er  is  borne  upward,  ever  upward,  to  the 
barren  crests  of  the  watershed  which  dominate  the  melan- 
choly spectacle  of  Nature's  wasted  endeavor. 

For  the  most  it  is  a  silent  land;  nor  is  there  movement 
to  break  the  awesome  stillness,  unless  it  be  the  frequent 
presence  of  storm.  Otherwise  the  calm  is  like  the  silence  of 
the  grave,  without  a  whisper  to  waken  the  echoes  of  the 
riven,  age-worn  crags,  or  a  movement  to  stir  the  hidden 
valleys  into  a  seeming  of  life.  It  is  the  stillness  of  outer 
darkness,  lit  only  by  a  wintry  sheen,  like  the  death-cold 
stare  of  wide,  unseeing  eyes. 

Such  thoughts  a#4  feelings  stirred  the  woman  traipsing 
easily  over  the  SHJ  /thly  pressed  snow-track  left  by  the 
laden  sled.  She  moVed  with  the  curious  swing  of  the  snow- 
shoer,  leisurely,  comfortably.  The  gee-pole  in  her  hand 
was  an  unnecessary  equipment,  for  her  path  was  fully  tested 
by  those  who  understood  far  better  than  she  the  dangers 
of  the  road  before  them. 

Audie's  eyes  were  looking  out  ahead  at  the  men  and  the 
dogs.  She  knew  she  had  no  other  responsibility  than  to 
keep  pace.  For  the  rest  she  knew  that  the  burden  of  their 
journey  rested  on  shoulders  more  capable  of  bearing  it.  So 
her  mind  was  given  up  to  thoughts  which  could  never  enter 
the  men's  heads.  And  those  thoughts  were  full  of  the 
unutterable  desolation  of  this  untamed  world. 

Si-wash  headed  the  dogs.  A  great  incline  of  smooth,  soft 
snow  mounted  up  to  the  crotch  of  a  great  hill,  where  twin 
peaks  rose  sharply,  towering  above,  and  a  wide  pathway 
was  left  between  them.  It  was  a  beacon  of  the  trail,  marking 
one  of  the  roughest  stretches  yet  to  be  traveled.  Beyond 
this,  five  miles  further  on,  the  scout  had  marked  a  camping 
ground. 

Just  now  he  was  a  little  anxious  in  his  silent  Indian  way, 
and  the  sign  of  it  was  in  his  furtive  watchfulness,  as  he 
peered  from  the  road  to  the  burnished  light  of  the  despond- 
ing sun. 

Leo,  swinging  along  beside  the  sled,  was  quite  unaware 
of  his  guide's  unease.  The  monotony  of  progress  left  him 
free  to  think  whithersoever  his  active  brain  listed.  For  the 
time  it  led  him  on,  on  into  dreams  of  the  future,  a  future 


THE    ROOF    OF    THE    NORTHERN    WORLD  17 

than  which  he  could  imagine  no  other.  His  fortune,  or  that 
which  stood  for  the  foundations  of  it,  lay  strapped  at  the 
tail  of  the  sled,  and  the  knowledge  of  its  presence,  the  sight 
of  its  canvas  wrapping  stirred  him  to  a  gladness  which  no 
monotony  of  the  long  trail  could  diminish.  For  him  this 
was  the  moment  of  passing,  when  the  foundations  had  been 
carefully  laid  and  the  first  scaffold  pole  was  about  to  be 
set  in  place  round  the  structure  of  for  ne  he  intended  to 
build. 

The  harsh  voice  of  Si-wash  struck  unp      santly  on  his  ears. 

"Look !"  he  cried,  pointing  at  the  c  jping  sun  with  a 
mitted  hand.  "It  the  be-damn  sun-d<  .  Him  look,  an' 
look  lak  hell.  Him  much  be-damn  sun-f1  <." 

The  man's  irritability  seemed  quib  acalled  for.  The 
sun  was  shining  over  the  still  world  with  its  usual  coppery 
splendor;  a  gleaming  ball  of  ruddy  fire  centering  a  wide 
halo  of  brilliant  light,  which,  in  its  turn,  was  studded  with 
four  magnificent  jewels  of  light — the  fiercely  burning  sun- 
dogs  which  Si-wash  so  bitterly  cursed.  But  Leo  understood 
the  full  significance  of  what  he  beheld.  He,  too,  felt  inclined 
to  curse  those  ominous  wardens  of  the  ineffective  northern 
sun. 

"Storm,"  he  said,  as  he  came  up  beside  the  Indian. 

"We  camp.  Five  miles,"  said  Si-wash  presently.  "Five 
mile,  long  piece.  Yes.  Storm,  him  come  quick.-" 

The  men  moved  on  in  silence,  side  by  side.  Audie  had 
heard  their  talk.  She,  too,  had  looked  across  at  the  stormy 
sun,  but  she  had  no  comment  to  add. 

They  were  nearing  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  laboring 
dogs  moved  with  heads  low,  and  lean  quarters  tucked  well 
beneath  them.  Their  pace  was  the  same  as  ever,  only  their 
effort  was  greater.  With  each  moment  the  gap  came  down 
towards  them,  and,  at  last,  they  trod  the  shoulder  under 
foot.  Then  Si-wash's  sharp  command  rang  out,  and  the 
five  great  burden  bearers  of  the  north  dropped  in  their 
traces,  and  sought  their  well-earned  rest  on  the  feathery 
softness  of  untrodden  snow. 

The  men  surveyed  the  view  from  the  great  height  at  which 
they  stood. 

For  long  moments  no  word  was  spoken.     Then  the  Indian 

held  up  a  warning  hand. 
3 


18  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Sec,  hark!" 

A  curious  sigh,  almost  as  if  the  great  hill  were  shivering 
under  the  biting  cold  of  the  atmosphere,  seemed  to  drift 
out  upon  the  sparkling  air.  It  died  away,  somewhere  in 
the  distance  behind  them. 

Then  Si-wash  spoke  again. 

"We  camp  quick."  Ke  pointed  away  out  at  the  far 
side  of  the  valley  confronting  them.  "We  mak  dat  valley. 
See  dat  hill?  We  come  so.  We  mak  round  it.  It  bad. 
So.  Long,  deep  fall.  Dogs  haul  'em  long  side  hill.  Very 
bad.  So  we  mak  'em  before  storm.  Good.  After  hill  mush 
wood.  Tall,  big.  It  is  we  camp." 

Without  waiting  for  reply  he  turned  to  the  dogs. 

"Ho,  you  damn  huskies.     Mush!" 

In  a  moment  the  dogs  leaped  at  their  traces,  and  the 
journey  went  on. 

The  end  of  the  passage  came  quickly ;  and,  as  it  did  so, 
and  the  scout  took  the  first  step  of  the  descent,  another 
sigh,  longer  drawn  out  this  time,  sharper,  a  sigh  that  spoke 
of  restless  discontent,  shuddered  down  the  mountain  side 
and  passed  on  ahead  of  them.  A  moment  later  a  tiny  eddy 
of  snow  was  caught  up  in  its  path  and  vanished  amidst  the 
sparkling  air  particles  glistening  in  the  sun. 

Again  the  Indian's  voice  broke  the  silence.  But  this  time 
it  was  to  urge  the  dogs  faster.  He  had  said  it  was  five  miles 
to  where  they  could  camp  in  safety ;  and  five  miles,  with  a 
storm  corning  on,  was,  as  he  said,  a  "long  piece." 

But  since  the  second  breath  had  swept  down  the  hillside 
a  change  seemed  to  have  come  over  the  aspect  of  the  day. 
It  was  subtle.  It  was  almost  indescribable.  Yet  it  was 
evident.  It  may  have  been  that  the  air  had  warmed  by  a 
few  degrees;  it  may  have  been  that  the  sun's  labored  light 
had  diminished.  Certainly  there  was  an  added  grayness 
settling  upon  the  icy  world.  Yes.  Something  had  cer- 
tainly changed  in  the  outlook,  and  it  was  a  change  which 
threatened,  and  told  of  the  dread  storm  to  come. 

The  dogs  raced  down  the  long  hillside  under  the  urgent 
commands  of  the  Indian.  A  mile,  one  out  of  five  to  be 
accomplished,  was  devoured  by  scurrying  feet.  Then  came 
the  first  real  challenge  of  the  storm.  It  was  a  swift,  fierce 
blast  which  swept  after  them,  as  though  enraged  at  the 


THE    ROOF    OF    THE    NORTHERN    WORLD  19 

attempt  to  escape.  In  wanton  riot  it  sent  a  dense  flurry  of 
snow  like  a  fog  whistling  about  them,  and,  for  the  moment, 
blotted  out  all  view  of  the  goal  Si-wash  had  set  for  himself. 

The  men  had  no  words,  but  their  thoughts  were  sufficiently 
in  common.  The  swift-rising  storm  had  banished  every  other 
consideration  from  their  minds.  Audie  closed  up  on  the 
sled,  and  her  action  spoke  for  itself. 

Another  blast  rushed  at  the  speeding  travelers.  It  came 
across  them.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  pause  in  its  rush 
as  though  it  had  reached  the  object  of  its  attack.  It  swung 
round  in  a  fierce  whirl,  round  and  round  in  growing  fierce- 
ness, picking  up  the  snow  and  bearing  it  aloft  in  a  gray  fog, 
like  fine  white  sand.  It  dashed  it  in  the  faces  of  the  men, 
it  beat  fiercely  upon  the  thick  coats  of  the  racing  dogs,  it 
swept  it  under  the  fur  hood  of  the  woman,  and  painfully 
whipped  the  soft  flesh  of  her  cheeks. 

The  hiss  of  its  voice  was  not  allowed  to  die  out.  Re- 
inforcements rushed  to  its  aid.  They  came  with  a  long- 
drawn  moaning  howl  sweeping  down  from  the  distant  hill, 
now  grown  vague  and  shadowy  behind  them,  and  added  to 
the  rapidly  growing  fog. 

Harshly  above  the  howl  of  the  storm  Si-wash's  voice 
shouted  into  Leo's  ear. 

"The  gar-damn  blizzard.     It  hell!" 

But  Leo  made  no  response.  He  had  no  answer  for  any- 
body. All  his  mind  was  centered  upon  the  goal  he  longed 
for.  Just  now  the  woodland  bluff,  Si-wash  had  spoken  of, 
seemed  the  most  desirable  thing  in  the  world.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  life  or  death.  They  were  considerations  that 
never  troubled  him.  He  was  thinking  of  what  the  wrecking 
of  their  transport  might  mean  to  him. 

Si-wash,  being  only  a  half-civilized  savage,  was  thinking 
of  those  things  which  did  not  trouble  his  white  companion; 
and,  being  simply  human,  he  thought  of  the  woman,  the 
burden  of  whose  presence  he  had  deplored. 

He  turned  and  shouted  at  her  to  come  up  abreast  of 
them,  fearing  a  stumble  might  mean  death  to  her  in  the 
storm ;  and  in  the  same  breath,  the  same  tone,  he  hurled 
a  string  of  blasphemous  commands  at  his  dogs. 

Almost  blinded  by  the  whipping  snow,  Audie  staggered  to 
the  side  of  the  Indian.  So  cruel  was  the  buffeting  of  the 


20  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

storm  she  would  have  fallen,  but  for  the  timely  succor  of 
the  man's  outstretched  hands.  Already  the  downward  rush 
was  left  behind,  and  the  level  of  the  valley  was  under  their 
feet.  Ahead  of  them,  lost  in  the  gray  of  the  storm  lay  the 
incline  which  was  to  lead  them  to  the  treacherous  shoulder 
of  the  hill  they  had  yet  to  pass.  Neither  dogs  nor  men 
could  see  it,  and  their  only  guidance  was  the  wonderful 
instinct  of  the  savage  brain  of  the  Indian. 

With  unerring  judgment  he  led  the  way,  faltering  not 
even  for  a  second  in  his  decisions ;  and  soon,  far  sooner  than 
seemed  possible,  the  tautened  traces,  and  crouching  gait  of 
the  dogs,  told  that  his  judgment  had  not  erred.  The  ascent 
had  begun. 

The  steady  pull  went  on  for  an  hour;  a  grinding,  weary 
labor  in  which  every  inch  of  the  way  was  only  accomplished 
under  the  cruel  lashing  of  a  merciless  wind,  and  with  eyes 
more  than  half  blinded  by  the  powdered  snow.  The  wind 
seemed  to  attack  them  from  every  side;  now  from  ahead; 
now  from  behind.  Now  it  whistled  down  the  hillside  on 
their  right ;  now  it  came  up  with  a  vicious  scream  from  the 
depths  of  the  canyon  which  dropped  away  beside  them  on 
the  left  of  the  harsh,  hummocky  path.  The  heavy  wrap- 
pings of  furs  about  their  mouths  were  a  mass  of  ice  from 
the  frozen  moisture  of  their  hard  breathing,  while  the  dense 
hoar-frost  on  their  lashes  had  to  be  wiped  away  lest  their 
lids  froze  together  as  their  watering  eyes  blinked  under  the 
force  of  the  wind.  It  was  such  a  journey  as  matched  the 
sterile  land  through  which  they  were  passing;  such  a  journey 
as  only  the  hardened  folk  of  the  northern  world  could  dare 
to  face. 

At  last  the  ascent  was  accomplished,  and  with  the  relaxing 
of  effort  came  the  first  warning  of  the  dangers  with  which 
they  were  surrounded. 

It  was  the  horror-stricken  cry  of  the  woman.  In  the 
blinding  snow  she  had  approached  the  edge  of  the  path  too 
nearly.  Her  feet  shot  from  under  her,  and,  for  a  moment, 
absolute  destruction  threatened.  Again  came  the  prompt 
succor  of  the  Indian.  Again  he  clutched  her,  and  held  her. 
Then  he  gathered  his  strength  for  an  effort,  and  the  next 
moment  she  was  sprawling  in  safety  at  the  feet  of  her  lover. 

"Ho,  you  damn-fool  woman!"  Si-wash  cried,  in  a  manner 


THE    HOOF    OF    THE    NORTHERN    WORLD  81 

that  merely  expressed  his  own  fears,  and  had  no  insult  in  it 

Leo  helped  Audie  to  her  feet.  A  moment  later  his  deep 
voice  shouted  above  the  howling  of  the  wind. 

"If  she  can  fall,  what  about  the  sled?" 

The  Indian's  reply  was  full  of  the  philosophy  of  his  race. 

"Sure,"  he  cried.     "It  easy." 

The  whiteman's  next  act  spoke  far  more  than  any  words 
could  tell.  He  dropped  back  to  the  tail  of  the  sled  to  guard 
his  precious  possessions.  His  first,  his  only  consideration 
amidst  the  perils  of  that  road  was  his  gold.  The  woman 
bearing  the  burden  of  her  devotion  to  him,  must  fight  for 
herself. 

Each  passing  moment  brought  added  perils.  The  path 
up  here  was  shorn  of  its  loose  covering  of  snow,  swept  away 
to  the  depths  below  by  the  all-mastering  gale.  The  surface 
left  was  little  better  than  a  sheet  of  glare  ice,  hummocky 
and  studded  with  roughnesses  caused  by  broken  ice  frozen 
upon  its  surface.  The  snowshoes  of  the  travelers  left  them 
fairly  secure  from  slipping,  but  the  wretched  dogs  had  no 
such  help.  They  fought  for  foothold  till  their  weary  feet 
were  left  torn  and  bleeding. 

But  the  hill  was  passed  and  the  track  was  no  longer  an 
ascent,  and  at  this  altitude  the  snow  fog  had  lightened  to 
gray  mist  which  left  the  Indian  less  troubled.  His  silent 
blasphemy  against  the  powers  that  ruled  the  storm  ebbed 
gently.  Its  flood  had  passed.  That  was  his  way.  The 
wall  on  his  right  was  a  sure  guide,  and  at  the  end  of  it  lay 
the  haven  where  he  hoped  to  eat  and  sleep.  So  long  as  he 
could  see  he  had  no  fear  whatsoever  of  the  country  to  which 
he  was  born. 

But  with  all  this  confidence  the  dangers  were  no  less.  The 
track  sloped  perilously  towards  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
on  the  left.  It  narrowed,  too,  so  that  there  was  no  room 
for  more  than  two  people  abreast.  Leo  understood  these 
things,  as  only  a  man  can  whose  mind  is  beset  with  dread 
for  the  safety  of  his  possessions.  Therefore  there  was  some- 
thing fierce  and  threatening  in  his  sudden  shout  at  the  man 
who  was  leading  the  dogs.  There  was  something  else  in  it, 
too.  There  was  a  terrible  fear,  which  sounded  strangely  in  a 
man  of  his  strength  of  purpose. 

"Stop !    Curse  you,  stop  the  dogs !"  he  cried  wildly. 


2%  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  shout  brought  the  dogs  to  a  stand,  and  the  Indian 
dropped  back. 

"What  is?"  he  demanded.     But  he  needed  no  answer. 

The  tail  of  the  sled  was  at  the  very  brink  of  the  precipice, 
supported  only  by  the  thrust  of  Leo's  gee-pole,  to  which  he 
clung  with  all  the  strength  of  his  great  body. 

The  Indian  and  the  woman  flung  themselves  to  the  rescue, 
and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  sled  was  resting  safely  at  the 
inner  side  of  the  path.  Then  the  Indian,  as  though  impart- 
ing pleasant  intelligence,  assured  his  comrade. 

"It  more  skid,  bimeby,"  he  observed  confidently.  "It 
worse — bimeby,"  he  added,  turning  again  to  the  dogs. 
"Mush  on,  you  devils !"  he  cried.  "Maybe  we  freeze." 

There  was  no  longer  any  ease  of  mind  for  the  whiteman. 
Time  and  again  the  sled  skidded,  and  each  time  he  saved  it 
from  destruction  only  by  inches.  That  stretch  of  level 
became  a  nightmare  to  him,  and  only  the  passionate  endeavor 
of  his  labor  made  his  nervous  tension  bearable.  His  pole 
was  at  work  every  foot  of  the  way,  guiding,  staying,  holding 
that  incessant  skid. 

So  they  struggled  on,  floundering  their  way  yard  by  yard, 
the  dumb  burden  bearers  fighting  for  a  foothold  at  every 
step.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  they,  too,  understood  their 
own  danger  from  the  skid,  and  were  driven  by  their  appre- 
hension to  unaccustomed  efforts.  They  tore  at  the  unyield- 
ing surface  of  ice  with  claws  broken  and  bleeding,  and,  by 
sheer  tenacity,  ground  out  a  purchase. 

The  drop  to  the  woodland  valley  below  was  nearing.  Si- 
wash  called  a  warning  to  the  man  behind. 

"We  near  come  by  end,"  he  shouted.  "Then  him  go  down 
lak  hell." 

With  this  brief  information  the  whiteman  had  to  be  con- 
tent, for  Si-wash  promptly  returned  to  his  dogs,  and  finally 
took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  sled.  Presently  the  sled 
jolted.  It  tilted  forward  as  the  leading  dogs  of  the  team 
vanished  down  the  slope.  Then,  in  a  moment,  the  run  began. 

The  change  came  all  too  suddenly.  The  sled  gained  a 
furious  impetus.  Leo  dashed  forward  to  thrust  a  brake 
at  its  head.  Si-wash  was  already  there  with  his  pole  thrust 
deep  in  the  snow.  The  two  men  joined  forces,  and,  for  a 
moment,  the  pace  was  steadied. 


THE    ROOF    OF    THE    NORTHERN    WORLD  23 

Then  something  happened.  It  was  disaster;  the  worst 
disaster  that  could  have  befallen  at  such  a  moment.  Leo's 
pole,  strained  possibly  by  the  work  it  had  already  done, 
bent.  It  cracked ;  and  broke  off  short.  In  a  moment  he  was 
left  behind  sprawling  in  the  snow.  Before  Si-wash  could 
readjust  his  pole  to  the  center  of  the  nose  of  the  sled  the 
vehicle  swung  out  stern  first.  It  swept  on  at  a  great  speed, 
and  the  dogs  raced  to  keep  out  of  its  way.  In  another 
moment  its  impetus  carried  it  to  the  brink  of  the  precipice. 
It  swept  on,  half  poised  in  mid-air.  Then,  with  a  clatter 
and  scrunch,  it  fell  over  the  side,  almost  sweeping  the  heavy 
dogs  from  their  feet. 

It  was  a  desperate  situation.  The  straining  dogs  held  for 
the  moment  by  reason  of  their  great  weight,  and  in  that 
moment  the  Indian  and  the  woman  were  able  to  reach  them 
and  throw  their  own  weight  into  the  balance.  Even  then 
it  was  a  desperate  uncertainty.  Could  they  hold  it?  Could 
they  recover  the  fallen  vehicle  carrying  such  an  enormous 
weight?  But  the  problem  solved  itself  in  its  own  way. 
Just  as  the  great  figure  of  Leo  loomed  up  on  the  scene  of 
the  disaster,  the  strain  on  the  traces  slackened,  and  the 
dogs  were  left  standing  still.  There  was  no  longer  need  to 
struggle. 

Si-wash  rose  from  the  ground  and  released  his  hold. 

"Wot  is't?"  he  asked,  in  a  stupid  way. 

Leo  was  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  gazing 
down  with  eyes  that  strained  to  behold  the  safety  of  that 
which  he  most  prized  in  all  the  world.  He  made  no  answer. 

Si-wash  came  to  his  side.  He  dropped  upon  his  stomach 
and  peered  down  at  the  gray  depths  beneath.  For  a  long 
while  he  was  silent.  Then,  at  last,  as  his  companion  stirred, 
he  spoke  in  the  curiously  indifferent  manner  of  his  kind. 

"The  pack.    Him  haf  gone.     Him  drop  long  way." 

Leo  was  on  his  feet  before  he  had  finished  speaking.  He 
turned  away  and  looked  out  into  the  gray  fog.  Presently 
he  glanced  down  at  the  man  beside  him.  Then  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  dogs.  Audie,  watching  him,  saw  a  strained, 
dreadful  expression  growing  in  his  eyes.  There  was  a 
subtle  fire  lighting  them;  a  fire  she  dreaded  to  look  upon. 

Then  he  began  to  speak.  And  as  he  spoke  a  wild,  un- 
tamed, impotent  fury  swept  through  his  head,  sweeping  away 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


all  thought,  all  reason.  Words,  foul,  blasphemous,  raving, 
leaped  to  his  tongue  and  found  expression.  He  cursed  the 
Indian ;  he  cursed  the  woman,  the  dogs,  the  sled.  He  cursed 
the  storm  and  the  country.  He  cursed  furiously,  impotently 
every  form  of  life  that  came  within  the  range  of  his  dis- 
torted vision.  He  cursed  his  God. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  DRIVING   FORCE 

THROUGH  the  tattered  pinewood  branches  the  northern 
sun's  cold  rays  sought  to  light  the  gloomy  aisles  below.  It 
was  like  the  furtive  peeping  of  curious  eyes  into  mysteries 
forbidden.  On  the  ragged  outskirts  its  staring  light  had 
power;  but  within  the  dim  recesses  it  was  swallowed  up, 
devoured  by  the  impenetrable  gloom  of  ages,  where  the  wood- 
land depths  refused  to  yield  their  secrets. 

Yet  these  woods  were  the  haven  of  many  a  weary  traveler. 
Since  ever  the  foot  of  man  had  trod  the  watershed,  none  had 
failed  to  seek  shelter  amid  these  stately  shadows ;  and  at 
all  times  they  lent  a  sure  retreat  before  winter's  storms  to 
the  lesser  animal  life.  No  storm  could  search  the  deepening 
valleys ;  no  blizzard  could  more  than  stir  the  mighty  canopy ; 
no  roar  of  wind  could  break  the  grave-like  silence,  just  as 
no  sunlight  had  ever  yet  solved  the  riddle  of  its  impenetrable 
heart. 

Two  men  and  a  woman  sat  huddled  over  a  crackling  fire, 
at  a  spot  where  dozens  of  fires  had  burned  before.  It  was 
cold,  bitterly  cold,  even  here  where  the  fierce  winds  had 
scarcely  power  to  stir  the  air.  But,  even  so,  the  cold  could 
not  add  one  iota  to  the  icy  misery  of,  at  least,  two  of  those 
who  watched  the  miserable  effort  of  the  fire  to  achieve  where 
ages  of  sunlight  had  failed. 

Beyond  the  rays  of  the  firelight  the  meager  paraphernalia 
of  a  camp  loomed  up  in  the  twilight.  A  low  tent  of  rough- 
tanned  hides  had  been  carefully  pitched.  It  was  a  stout 
enough  shelter  of  crude  Indian  workmanship,  and  it  doubt- 
less served  its  purpose  well  in  a  land  of  storm  such  as  those 
northern  heights  of  the  world.  Near  by  was  an  up-turned 


THE    DRIVING    FORCE  25 

sled  in  the  course  of  repair,  and  again  the  stout  crudeness 
of  workmanship  bespoke  the  Indian  hand.  The  long,  raw- 
hide traces  were  strung  out  upon  the  bed  of  pine-cones  and 
needles  which  covered  the  ground,  just  where  the  harness 
had  been  flung  from  the  shoulders  of  the  weary  dogs,  who 
squatted  about  between  their  human  masters,  staring  and 
blinking  at  the  pleasant  warmth  of  the  fire  with  luxurious 
confidence. 

The  men  were  silent,  and  the  woman  watched  one  of  them 
with  anxious,  troubled  eyes.  She  was  longing  to  speak,  to 
say  something  that  might  salve  the  wounded  heart  of  her 
lover.  But  there  was  nothing,  nothing,  she  knew,  that  would 
ease  his  pain,  and  restore  to  his  burning,  despairing  eyes 
their  wonted  look  of  masterful  confidence.  She  knew  that, 
for  the  time,  at  least,  hope  had  been  hurled  from  its  high 
pedestal  in  his  heart,  and  it  was  beyond  her  puny  woman's 
strength- to  restore  it*  to  its  setting.  She  yearned  to  comfort 
as  only  a  loving  woman  can,  but  she  was  far  too  well  versed 
in  the  curiosities  of  Leo's  dominant,  almost  violent  nature, 
not  to  realize  the  futility  of  such  an  effort. 

So  she  watched  him  with  hopeless  gaze.  She  saw  the  fixed 
stare  of  his  bloodshot  eyes  boring  unseeingly  into  the  pitiful 
embers  of  fire.  She  saw  the  thick  veins  standing  but  upon 
his  temples,  and  understood  the  passionate  regret  and  resent- 
ment driving  him ;  and  as  she  watched  these  things,  estimat- 
ing them  in  her  own  timid  way,  she  wondered  and  marveled 
at  the  power  of  gold  upon  the  human  heart,  and  at  the  ter- 
rible effect  its  loss  could  have  on  a  strong  man's  mind. 

While  she  watched  the  brooding  figure  her  mind  went  back 
to  the  moment  of  disaster  when  the  sled  had  fallen.  For 
just  as  long  as  she  lived  those  moments  would  remain  vividly 
in  her  memory.  When  Leo  had  discovered  that  half  the 
load  had  torn  itself  from  its  fastenings,  and  had  been  swal- 
lowed up  by  yawning  depths  below  he  went  suddenly 
demented.  She  knew  it.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  witnessed 
so  dreadful  a  change  in  anybody.  Even  now  the  impotent, 
almost  idiotic  ravings  and  cursings  of  the  man  rang  in  her 
cars.  It  was  terrible.  She  shuddered  at  the  recollection. 
Then  what  followed  was  no  less  horrible  to  one  who  had 
always  known  her  lover  for  a  sober-minded,  purposeful  man. 
In  the  midst  of  the  storm,  with  the  wind  raging  about  them, 


26  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

and  the  gray  fog  blinding  their  eyes,  he  had  stood  by  threat- 
ening her,  and  refusing  to  raise  a  hand  in  the  task  of  saving 
the  wreck  with  its  remaining  half  of  the  cargo. 

The  toil  of  those  hours.  The  weary  hopeless  toil.  And 
it  had  been  accomplished  by  the  Indian  and  herself  under 
the  shadow  of  this  man's  insane  threats  against  them  both. 
Once  during  their  struggle,  just  when  the  sled  was  almost 
within  reach  of  safety  she  had  been  driven  in  self-defence, 
and  in  defence  of  the  faithful  Si-wash,  to  hold  the  maniac 
at  bay  under  cover  of  a  revolver,  whilst  the  task  was 
completed. 

Her  life  had  been  strangely  checkered,  she  had  passed 
through  many  adventures  that  rarely  befall  a  woman  be- 
longing to  the  life  of  civilized  communities,  but  the  worst 
moments  she  had  ever  known  were  incomparable  with  that 
struggle  on  the  brink  of,  for  all  she  knew,  an  unfathomable 
chasm. 

The  shadow  of  that  struggle  was  still  upon  her.  She 
could  not  shake  it  off.  She  was  dreading  every  passing 
moment,  longing  to  hear  the  calm  tones  of  her  lover  she  was 
used  to,  but  fearing  lest  the  insanity  inspired  by  the  loss 
of  his  gold  had  not  yet  passed. 

So  she  waited,  watching,  watching  for  the  sign  that  was 
to  tell  her  of  the  easing  of  the  straining  brain,  watching 
the  dreadful  stare  of  his  eyes,  as  they  gazed  upon  nothing 
of  what  they  beheld,  with  a  brain  lost  in  a  terrible  contem- 
plation of  the  hideous  thoughts  passing  behind  them. 

Si-wash  was  silent,  too.  But  that  was  his  way,  the  way 
of  his  race.  His  impassive  face  yielded  no  indication  of 
what  was  passing  behind  it.  If  he  feared  his  companion's 
mood  he  gave  no  sign.  Possibly  he  did  not.  Possibly  he 
realized  that  here,  here  on  the  wild,  chaotic  trail  he  was 
master ;  certainly  that  his  chances  were  equal  with  the  other. 

The  fire  burned  low.  Si-wash  kicked  the  embers  together 
with  his  moccasined  foot.  Then  he  rose  and  shuffled  to  the 
wood  pile  and  replenished  it.  For  a  moment  he  watched 
the  flicker  of  the  flames  as  they  licked  round  the  dead, 
inflammable  bark,  and  in  desperation  Audie  broke  the  awful 
silence. 

"When'll  the  sled  be  ready  for  the  road  again?"  she  de- 
manded, without  serious  interest. 


THE    DRIVING    FORCE  27 

Si-wash's  eyes  drifted  to  the  cumbersome  vehicle. 

"I  finish  him  two  days,"  he  said,  holding  up  two  fingers 
to  impress  his  assurance  upon  her. 

"Most  of  the  food  was  saved,"  Audie  went  on.  "It  was 
the  other  things  that  were  lost." 

The  Indian  nodded. 

"Sure.  We  freeze  but  for  fire.  Him  cook-pots  go.  Only 
one  him  saved.  Blanket  him  go.  So  him  go  the — 

"Go  and  get  wood,  you  red  son-of-a-moose,"  cried  Leo  with 
sudden  vehemence.  "Don't  stand  there  yapping  like  a 
yellow  cur." 

The  man's  bloodshot  eyes  blazed  up  furiously  into  the 
Indian's  face.  For  a  moment  Audie  feared  another  out- 
break such  as  she  had  witnessed  before.  She  even  feared  for 
Si-wash's  wretched  life.  But  the  Indian  understood  his 
companion's  mood  and  moved  silently  off  to  obey.  He 
admitted  to  himself  that  the  man  was  mad ;  and  he  had  a 
curious  dread  of  people  who  were  possessed  of  such  a  devil. 

Leo  watched  him  disappear  in  the  gloom  of  the  woods. 
Then  he  turned  back  impatiently  to  the  fire.  He  hunched 
himself  up,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hands,  and  his  elbows 
on  his  knees.  The  mention  of  their  losses  had  again  driven 
him  hard,  but,  curiously  enough,  now  the  eyes  of  the  watch- 
ing woman  saw  that  his  mood  had  changed  for  the  better. 
His  were  less  straining,  and  the  veins  of  his  temples  no  longer 
sto/)d  out  like  twisted  cords.  She  began  to  hope.  She  felt, 
dangerous  as  it  might  seem,  that  it  would  be  far  better  that 
he  should  talk,  whatever  pain  such  talk  might  cost  her.  Far 
better  than  that  he  should  sit  silently  nursing  his  despair. 

The  idea  became  fixed  in  her  mind,  and  she  cast  about 
for  an  opening.  Her  instinct  belonged  to  her  sex ;  she  knew, 
none  better,  the  burden  of  dreary  thoughts  hugged  to  a 
silent  bosom.  It  was  difficult.  Leo  was  at  all  times  aloof. 
His  armor  of  reserve  left  her  still  a  stranger  to  his  inmost 
feelings  and  thoughts,  so  that  she  scarcely  knew  how  to 
approach  the  task  she  contemplated. 

She  was  spared  her  trouble,  however.  It  was  Leo  who  at 
last  broke  the  silence  and  made  possible  that  very  purpose 
the  contemplation  of  which  filled  her  with  so  much  doubt. 
He  stirred,  and  swiftly  aimed  a  vicious  kick  at  a  log  protrud- 
ing from  the  embers  of  the  fire.  The  response  was  a  shower 


28  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

of  sparks  flying  upward.  Then  he  turned  to  her  and  began 
talking  rapidly. 

"I — I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  could  blame  you  for  all — 
this,"  he  began,  in  a  low,  harsh  tone.  "But  I  don't.  I've 
still  got  sense  enough  for  that.  And  it's  lucky — lucky  for 
you." 

The  woman's  face  paled  under  the  beaver  cap  pressed 
low  down  upon  her  head.  The  threat  was  the  more  terrible 
for  the  simplicity  of  the  manner  in  which  he  uttered  it. 

"How  could  I  be  responsible?"  she  asked,  while  her  heart 
chilled  within  her. 

"How?"  Leo  laughed  without  mirth.  "I  tell  you  I  don't 
blame  you — and  yet  I  might.  I  did  not  intend  to  make  this 
journey  in  winter." 

Audie  understood.  She  knew  he  was  making  this  journey 
for  her  sake.  Therefore  she  remained  silent.  How  could 
she  deny  the  blame,  which,  she  knew  in  her  heart,  he  set 
at  her  door? 

"Say,  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  this  means  to  us — to 
me,"  he  went  on,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  passion.  "No,  you 
don't — you  can't.  Guess  it's  not  likely.  You  just  remember 
we've  still  enough  food  for  the  journey  which  is  to  bring  us 
where  your  child  can  be  born  in — in  decency.  You  know 
we  have  no  money.  But  that  don't  mean  a  thing  to  you, 
because  you  guess  there's  a  man's  hand  ready  to  get  busy  in 
your  service.  You've  no  thought  for  anything  else,  because 
— because  I  guess  you're  a  woman." 

He  caught  his  breath  sharply  as  though  laboring  under 
a  stab  of  intense  bodily  pain. 

Then  he  laughed  a  short  harsh  laugh. 

"If  you  could  only  look  into  my  brain — my  heart — my 
feelings,  maybe  you'd  realize  something  of  the  destruction 
that's  been  done  there  by  the  loss  of  my  gold.  Oh,  I'm  no 
miser,  greedily  hungering  after  the  precious  stuff.  It's  not 
that."  He  paused  and  looked  steadily  at  her.  "I  s'pose 
you  can't  realize  what  it  means  to  have  the  concentrated 
hopes  of  years  suddenly  dashed  to  a  thousand  atoms.  No, 
course  you  can't.  You  can't  see,  you  can't  feel  these  things, 
because  you  have  never  got  up  against  those  hills  of  success, 
which  confront  every  man  of  purpose  who's  determined  to 
cut  himself  a  path  which  is  to  lead  him  right  up  to  the — 


THE    DRIVING    FORCE  29 

top  of  things.  I've  got  busy  that  way,  and  the  walls  have 
fallen  in  and  well  nigh  broke  me  up.  That's  what's  hap- 
pened. But  I'm  not  down  and  out — yet.  Not  quite.  No. 
I  want  to  get  right  up  and  hurt  some  one  in  return.  I  want 
to  hit  out  and — hurt.  I  want  to  do  things  by  way  of — re- 
taliation. Guess  there's  nothing  to — to  retaliate  on  but 
those  very  walls  that  have  so  nearly  crushed  me. 

"That's  the  way  I'm  feeling  now.  But  I  don't  guess  it's 
all.  Not  by  a  sight.  Guess  I've  been  well  nigh  mad.  Maybe 
I  was  mad.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  care.  Anyway  I  am  mad 
no  longer.  How  long  my  sanity  will  last  I  can't  say.  All  I 
know  is  I  daren't  look  back.  If  I  did — well,  I  wouldn't 
gamble  a  heap  on  the  result.  No,  I  got  to  look  forward. 
Maybe  that'll  save  me." 

Audie  nodded.    The  fear  of  him  was  dying  out  of  her. 

"I  think  I  understand — all,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"Yes,  look  ahead,  it  will  be  best  for  you.  Don't  let  thought 
of  our — our  boy  concern  you  now;  forget  everything — 
but  that  goal  you  spoke  of." 

Just  for  a  moment  the  man's  eyes  softened.  He  was  not 
insensible  to  the  utter  self-effacement  in  the  woman's  desire 
to  help  and  comfort.  But  they  hardened  again  almost  at 
once. 

"I'm  not  going  to  let — anything — interfere,"  he  said  al- 
most brutally.  "My  plans  are  fixed.  Now  listen.  To- 
morrow I  get  right  back  to  Sixty-mile  Creek.  Anyway  I 
start  out  for  it.  I'll  have  to  go  on  foot.  Maybe  I  shan't 
ever  reach  it.  Anyway  that  don't  matter.  If  I  do  I'll 
remain  there  until  I  have  washed  up  as  much  gold  as  I 
have  lost.  It  may  take  a  year — two — three.  It  don't 
matter  how  long." 

"But —      "  Audie  broke  in  with  wide,  horrified  eyes. 

Leo  stopped  her  with  a  swift  gesture. 

"It's  no  use  shouting,"  he  said  harshly.  "I  tell  you  my 
mind's  made  up.  You'll  go  on  down  to  the  coast  with 
Si-wash.  You'll  be  able  to  get  the  help  you  need  there." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  can  manage.  I  can  get  to  my  sister  in  San 
Sabatano." 

"Good.  You'll  go  on  then.  I  can  trust  Si-wash.  He's  been 
paid.  You'll  have  food  enough,  and  you'll  travel  light.  If  he 
fails  you,  and  I  survive,  if  I  hunt  the  world  over  I'll  kill  him." 


30  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Audio's  eyes  lit.  It  was  the  one  expression  of  feeling  Leo 
had  displayed  which  she  could  take  to  herself. 

"Then  afterwards — God  knows  when — I'll  come  and 
marry  you.  It's  the  best  we  can  do.  It's  all  I  can  promise. 
We're  plumb  up  against  it.  Whatever  happens,  I'm  going 
to  marry  you.  That  goes." 

Audie  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  heartfelt  gratitude.  The 
ice  had  been  broken.  She  knew  that  Leo's  mental  balance 
was  restored.  It  mattered  nothing  to  her  at  that  moment 
that  she  had  to  face  the  world  alone  with  her  burden  of 
motherhood.  It  mattered  nothing  that  the  shame  she  had 
so  dreaded  was  still  to  be  hers.  The  future  had  no  longer 
any  terrors  for  her.  How  should  it?  The  man  she  had 
always  known  had  once  more  resumed  sway  in  the  mind  so 
recently  distracted  to  the  verge  of  madness.  Her  lover  was 
once  more  the  ruthless,  powerful  creature  she  had  followed 
into  the  wilderness,  was  ready  to  follow  into  the  wilderness 
again  if  he  would  only  permit  her. 

"Must  I — must  I  go  on  to  the  coast?  Is  there  need?" 
she  said,  in  a  low,  pleading  voice,  after  a  moment's  silence. 
"If  you  are  going  back,  cannot  I  go  back,  too?  There's 
the  sled.  Why  go  on  foot?  Let  me  return  with  you,  Leo." 

The  man  shook  his  head,  and  his  negative  was  as  irrevo- 
cable as  any  spoken  words.  If  he  understood  the  devotion 
prompting  her  he  gave  no  sign. 

"Your  life  shan't  be  risked  that  way,"  he  said.  "The 
child  must  be  born  where  you  can  get  help.  That's — our 
duty.  It's  my  duty  that  you  reach  the  coast  in  safety  as 
far  as  the  matter  is  humanly  possible.  Si-wash'll  have  to 
fix  that.  After  that  I'm  helpless — I  haven't  a  cent  in  the 
world  or  I  would  give  it  you.  You'll  have  to  go  on  to  the 
coast,  and  I — I  return  alone." 

Audie  bowed  her  head  submissively.  She  knew  he  was 
right  under  the  existing  circumstances.  Anyway,  right  or 
wrong,  she  was  ready  to  submit  to  his  will.  More  than  that 
she  was  glad  to  do  so.  Her  big  eyes  stared  thoughtfully 
into  the  blaze  of  the  fire.  There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  She 
was  content  to  sit  there  in  silence,  dreaming  her  dreams ; 
those  dreams  which  the  silent  northern  world  so  mysteriously 
fosters,  to  cover  up  its  own  nakedness  and  make  life  possible 
upon  its  sterile  bosom. 


THE    DRIVING    FORCE  31 

Later  on  the  shuffling  of  Si-wash's  moccasins  scrunching 
upon  the  pine-cones  made  itself  heard.  He  came  with  a 
great  load  of  firewood  upon  his  broad  back.  Leo  watched 
him  deposit  it  and  replenish  the  fire.  Then  Audie  set  about 
preparing  a  meal,  and  the  dogs  were  fed  from  the  store  of 
frozen  fish,  which,  by  a  trick  of  Fate,  had  been  saved  in 
preference  to  their  precious  store  of  gold.  After  that,  as 
the  twilit  woods  were  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
Audie  vanished  into  the  tent,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  solitude  of  the  tent  was  preferable  to  the  silence 
round  the  fire.  She  had  permitted  her  lover  to  dispose  of 
her  life  as  he  chose,  but  she  passionately  longed  to  return 
with  him  to  the  north,  whatever  the  dangers  to  herself  and 
her  unborn  child.  All  she  cared  for  was  this  hard,  unyielding 
man.  So  long  as  she  had  him  she  could  think  of  and  con- 
sider those  other  things  which  now  seemed  so  small  in  her 
life.  Without  him  they  were  utterly  swallowed  up  by  the 
desolation  of  all  her  thoughts  and  feelings.  She  wanted  him. 
She  wanted  this  love  of  hers.  Nothing  else  in  the  wide  world 
really  mattered.  He  was  going  out  of  her  life.  She  knew  it. 
She  knew  more.  He  was  going  out  of  her  life  for  ever.  It 
was  a  haunted,  despairing  woman  that  sought  the  warm  furs 
which  the  man  had  given  up  to  her  use.  And  the  eyes  that 
finally  closed  in  slumber  were  stained  with  tears  wrung  from 
the  very  depths  of  her  warm,  foolish  heart. 

For  long  hours  after  the  woman's  eyes  had  closed  in 
troubled  sleep  the  two  men  hugged  the  warmth  of  the  fire. 
They  had  neither  blanket  nor  bed.  All  that  had  been  saved 
had  been  given  to  the  woman.  The  fire  stood  between  them 
and  the  bitter  cold  of  the  northern  night,  and  beside  it  was 
their  couch  of  rotting  pine-cones.  But  they  were  hardened 
to  the  deadly  winter,  and,  so  long  as  they  could  keep  the 
frost  out  of  their  flesh,  nothing  much  mattered. 

They  smoked  in  silence,  each  man  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts ;  and  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  Si-wash  gave  his 
friend  the  benefit  of  his  profound  cogitations. 

He  had  just  replenished  the  fire,  and  finally  drawn  up 
the  broken  sled  as  an  added  protection  against  the  bitter 
breath  of  the  night  breezes.  Then  he  returned  to  his  place 
and  squatted  upon  his  haunches,  hugging  his  knees  with  his 
clasped  hands,  while  he  puffed  at  the  reeking  black  clay  pipe 


M  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

which,  in  the  manner  of  his  race,  protruded  from  the  center 
of  his  mouth. 

"I  mak  'em  long  piece  way.  No  plenty  wood.  I  mak  'em 
mile — two  mile."  Si-wash  held  up  two  fingers. 

Leo  looked  up  quickly  at  this  breaking  of  the  silence. 

"Sure,"  he  said.    "Wood  scarce." 

Si-wash  nodded. 

"Plenty  scarce."  Then  after  a  long  pause:  "Other  man 
find  him.  Burn  'em  all  up." 

Leo  eyed  his  companion.     Then  he  grinned  unpleasantly. 

"Guess  there's  only  one  damn-fool  outfit  on  this  trail- 
hereabouts 

The  Indian  went  on  smoking,  and  nearly  a  minute  passed 
before  he  shot  a  quick,  sidelong  glance  at  his  white  friend. 

"No.  Two,"  he  said;  and  the  inevitable  two  fingers  were 
thrust  up  again  before  Leo's  eyes. 

It  was  the  white  man's  turn  to  pause  before  replying 
now. 

"Two?"  he  said,  half  incredulously. 

The  Indian  nodded,  and  again  held  up  two  fingers. 

"How  d'you  know?"     Leo's  question  came  sharply. 

"Smoke,"  returned  the  Indian ;  and  his  one  hand  described 
a  series  of  circles  upwards. 

"You  mean — a  camp  fire?     Where?" 

Leo  was  more  than  interested. 

"So.  Back  there.  Big  piece.  One — two — three  mile." 
Si-wash  held  up  three  fingers  in  deliberate  succession. 

Leo's  interest  seemed  to  suddenly  die  out.  He  had  no 
further  questions  to  ask ;  and,  a  moment  later,  he  leaned  for- 
ward and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  Then  he  rose  and 
moved  over  to  the  sled.  Here  he  sat  down  and  supported  his 
back  against  an  iron  strut,  and  stretched  his  legs  out  beside 
the  fire.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  asleep. 

Si-wash  remained  where  he  was.  He  made  no  preparations 
for  sleep;  but  he  slept,  every  now  and  then  waking  up  to 
replenish  the  fire.  And  so  the  long  hours  crept  on  toward 
the  gray  dawn. 

Daylight  had  come.  Leo  yawned  and  stretched  his 
cramped  limbs.  Si-wash  was  still  beside  the  fire.  He  had 
melted  a  pot  of  snow,  the  only  pot  that  had  been  saved  from 


LEO  33 

the  wreck  on  the  hillside.  He  was  making  tea,  boiling  it,  as 
is  the  fashion  of  all  Indians.  The  smell  of  it  pervaded  the 
camp  and  reminded  Leo  that  he  was  hungry. 

In  half  an  hour  breakfast  was  over,  and  Si-wash  proceeded 
with  his  work  on  the  sled.  Audie  waited  for  the  commands 
of  her  lover.  But  none  were  forthcoming.  For  a  long  time 
Leo  sat  lost  in  thought,  watching  the  skillful  fingers  of  the 
Indian  at  his  work,  while  the  fierce  sled  dogs  fought  and 
played  around  in  their  untamed,  savage  way. 

The  man's  expression  was  quite  inscrutable.  He  was 
thinking  neither  of  the  Indian  nor  his  work.  His  mind  was 
on  other  matters,  matters  which  set  him  puzzling  and  specu- 
lating. 

At  last  he  rose  and  picked  up  the  rawhide  rope,  which 
was  lying  beside  the  diminished  wood  pile.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  contemplating  it.  Then  he  absently  stretched 
it  out  on  his  powerful  hands,  and  finally  coiled  it  up. 

"Guess  I'll  climb  around  and  gather  wood.  So  long, 
Audie,"  he  said  briefly. 

The  next  moment  the  girl's  longing  eyes  were  watching 
his  retreating  figure  as  the  gray  distance  swallowed  it  up. 

For  a  long  time  she  stood  thus.  Then  she  started  and 
looked  around.  It  was  the  Indian's  voice  that  had  startled 
her. 

"Him  heap  good  feller.     Him  no  come  back  bimeby." 

The  girl's  eyes  widened  with  sudden  fear. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  with  a  clutching  at 
her  heart. 

The  Indian's  features  relaxed  into  something  approaching 
a  smile. 

"Him  crazy,  sure !" 


CHAPTER  IV 

LEO 

LEO  gazed  about  him  as  he  left  the  woodland  shadows 
behind.  All  sign  of  the  recent  blizzard  had  passed.  The 
world  was  white,  cold,  and  bathed  in  the  gleaming  sunlight 
of  the  northern  winter.  The  air  was  warmer  than  it  had 
been  for  days,  an  unusual  phenomenon  after  such  a  storm. 


34  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

For  a  moment  his  unexpressive  eyes  lifted  to  the  shining 
sky.  There  was  nothing  to  suggest  anything  in  the  nature 
of  one  of  those  rapid  changes  of  weather  so  much  a  feature 
of  winter  in  this  region,  and  the  prospect  seemed  to  satisfy 
him.  From  the  sky  his  glance  drifted  to  the  jagged  horizon, 
and  here  it  searched  closely  in  every  direction.  For  a  long 
time  he  stood  studying  every  rise  and  depression  in  the 
glacial  ocean  of  hills  and  valleys;  then,  slowly,  his  interest 
began  to  wane. 

Now  a  definite  disappointment  became  apparent  in  the 
frown  that  depressed  his  strong  brows.  He  moved  out  from 
the  edge  of  the  woods  and  skirted  them  until  a  fresh  vista  of 
bald,  snow-clad  hills  presented  themselves  to  his  searching 
eyes.  For  a  time  his  scrutiny  lacked  something  of  its 
original  interest.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  it  became  fixed  on 
one  spot,  a  deep  depression,  shadowed,  and  definitely  marked, 
an  almost  black  patch  in  the  white  setting  of  the  surrounding 
world. 

In  a  moment  all  his  interest  had  revived,  and  he  concen- 
trated all  his  efforts  to  read  the  meaning  of  that  which  he 
beheld. 

"He  wasn't  lying,  after  all,"  he  muttered  at  last.  And 
his  words  gave  a  key  to  his  recent  moments  of  waning 
interest. 

He  knew  that  the  black  patch  he  was  looking  at  was  a  bluff 
of  woods  lying  in  the  narrow  valley  between  two  high  hills, 
a  bluff  of  woods  such  as  those  which  lay  behind  him. 
Whether  they  were  larger,  or  just  a  small,  isolated  cluster  of 
trees  did  not  concern  him.  He  was  watching  a  spiral  of  thin 
smoke,  a  faint  shadow  against  the  dark  backing,  as  it  floated 
upwards  and  drifted  away,  quite  invisible  after  it  broke  the 
sky  line.  He  knew  that  this  was  the  smoke  Si-wash  had  told 
him  of.  He  knew,  as  Si-wash  had  known,  that  it  was  the 
smoke  of  a  camp  fire.  He  wondered  whose,  and,  wondering, 
he  moved  out  without  any  hesitation  in  its  direction,  deter- 
mined to  ascertain  whose  hand  had  lit  the  fire;  a  matter 
which  had  seemed  all  unnecessary  to  the  Indian's  mind. 

Just  for  a  moment  he  glanced  again  at  the  sun,  and  took 
his  bearings.  Si-wash  had  said  three  miles  at  most.  Three 
miles;  it  was  little  enough  to  concern  himself  about.  He 
knew  that  unless  he  encountered  unlooked-for  difficulties  he 


LEO  35 

would  be  able  to  cover  the  distance,  and  make  the  return 
journey  in  less  than  four  hours. 

So  he  set  off,  adopting  a  course  much  as  the  crow  might 
fly.  That  was  his  way  in  all  things.  He  rarely  sought  to 
spare  himself  by  seeking  the  easier  route  in  anything.  His 
goal  always  assumed  a  definite  point  straight  ahead  of  him, 
so  why  make  the  journey  longer  for  the  sake  of  a  little  ease? 
Time  enough  for  such  deviations  when  stress  of  circum- 
stances demanded. 

His  way  took  him  down  a  long,  easy  slope,  where,  at 
moments,  banks  of  snow  mounted  up  to  many  feet  in  height, 
and  at  others  the  earth  lay  bare,  swept  clear  by  the  force  of 
the  recent  storm.  Then  it  was  possible  for  him  to  travel 
swiftly,  nor  was  he  put  to  inconvenience  from  the  fact  that 
he  was  without  his  snowshoes. 

The  depression  was  quickly  passed  and  terminated  in  the 
abrupt  rise  of  a  low  bald  hill  whose  base  was  surrounded  by 
a  low,  shabby  scrub.  At  first  glance  the  hill  had  a  curious 
resemblance  to  a  monk's  shaven  crown,  but  a  closer  inspec- 
tion revealed  that  here  was  one  of  those  broken  hills  suggest- 
ing the  ruin  of  a  one-time  magnificient  mountain,  which  must 
have  succumbed  under  the  fierce  blastings  of  one  of  Nature's 
passionate  moments.  The  bald  crown  was  a  broken  sea  of 
torn  and  riven  rocks,  which  might  well  have  been  the  result 
of  gigantic  operations  with  dynamite. 

The  obstruction  gave  him  no  pause.  Again  deviation 
never  entered  his  head.  With  infinite  purpose  he  attacked 
the  ascent  which  amounted  to  a  laborious  and  even  perilous 
struggle.  There  was  no  faltering,  and  soon  he  was  so  far 
involved  that  any  thought  of  yielding  to  the  difficulties  he 
encountered  became  quite  out  of  the  question.  To  return 
would  have  been  far  more  difficult  than  to  continue  the 
advance. 

The  ascent  occupied  an  hour  of  great  physical  effort, 
but  at  last  he  stood  at  the  summit  breathing  hard  from  his 
exertions.  Here  he  paused  and  surveyed  the  distance. 
Again  was  it  characteristic  of  him  that  he  had  no  longer 
interest  in  his  immediate  surroundings,  or  the  difficulties  he 
had  already  surmounted.  His  whole  thought  was  for  that 
which  lay  ahead,  for  those  difficulties  which  still  remained 
to  be  overcome. 


36  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  descent  of  the  hill,  though  it  appeared  to  be  no  mean 
accomplishment,  was  far  shorter,  and  far  less  abrupt  than 
the  upward  climb  had  been.  Nor  was  he  sorry  for  the 
respite,  while  still  there  was  no  shrinking  in  him  from  what- 
ever hazard  Nature  might  have  chosen  to  offer.  He  had 
calculated  that  such  was  the  case,  for  the  whole  trend  of 
the  land  was  upward,  bearing  on  up  to  the  crystal  peak 
between  which  the  crowding  woodland  ahead  lay  pinched. 
His  eyes  wandered  on  with  his  thoughts  which  carried  him 
out  in  the  direction  of  the  tiny  ribbon  of  smoke,  still  gently 
rising  from  the  heart  of  the  woods  to  vanish  in  the  sparkling 
air  above. 

He  remained  for  one  brief  moment  while  he  made  a  rough 
estimate  of  the  distance  he  had  yet  to  go;  then,  without 
wasting  a  precious  moment,  he  dropped  upon  the  first  rugged 
step  of  the  descent.  The  work  was  harder  than  might  have 
been  expected,  far  harder.  And  the  rope  he  had  brought 
with  him  frequently  stood  him  in  good  stead  while  making 
those  big  drops,  which,  from  the  distance,  seemed  so  insig- 
nificant and  easy.  But  it  was  never  his  way  to  consider 
difficulties  seriously  until  he  found  himself  in  their  midst. 
At  all  times  the  needs  of  the  moment  were  sufficient,  and  he 
was  firm  in  the  belief  that  there  was  no  difficulty  in  human 
life  where  an  advantageous  way  out  did  not  lay  waiting  for 
the  seeker.  His  mood  was  the  dogged  persistence  which 
urges  a  man  on  without  consideration  or  thought  for  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  but  his  own  all-mastering  purpose. 

It  was  this  mood  which  had  first  driven  him  to  the  northern 
wilderness,  where  he  hoped  to  acquire  the  necessary  founda- 
tions for  his  fortune  in  the  least  possible  time.  It  was  this 
intensity  of  purpose  which  had  blinded  him  to  the  possibilities 
of  burdening  himself  with  the  care  of  a  woman.  It  was  this 
crude  driving  force  which,  in  face  of  stupendous  difficulties, 
not  to  say  impossibilities,  had  decided  him  to  return  on  foot 
to  Sixty-mile  Creek.  These  things  were  part  of  the  man. 
He  could  not  help  them. 

So  it  was  in  the  case  of  his  search  for  this  mysterious 
camp.  He  was  urged  to  make  it,  irresistibly  urged,  and  he 
could  have  given  no  definite  reasons  for  his  actions. 

Slowly  there  came  a  change  in  the  man's  whole  attitude. 
It  was  a  subtle  change,  and  one  wholly  unrealized  by  him- 


LEO  37 

self.  A-s  he  gained  way  over  the  broken  path  before  him 
a  strange  eagerness  became  apparent  in  all  his  movements, 
in  his  expression,  in  the  quick,  searching  glance  of  his  eyes. 
The  deliberate  manner  in  which  he  had  made  the  ascent  now 
gave  way  to  an  impatient  eagerness  which  frequently  placed 
him  at  considerable  risk,  and  even  peril.  Often,  where  the 
slower  process  of  the  rope's  assistance  would  have  been 
safest,  he  trusted  to  hands  and  feet,  and  even  to  a  jump, 
with  a  considerable  uncertainty  as  to  where  he  was  going 
to  land.  But  he  took  the  risks,  urged  on  by  this  strange, 
unacknowledged  desire  to  reach  his  destination  quickly. 

The  broken  hill  was  left  behind  him  after  less  than  an 
hour's  hard  struggle ;  and  when,  at  last,  he  stood  upon  the 
comparatively  smooth  upland,  with  the  distant  fringe  of 
woodlands  high  up  above  him,  he  realized  that  his  estimate, 
as  had  been  Si-wash's,  of  the  distance,  was  considerably  at 
fault.  He  had  still  full  three  miles  to  go  amidst  the  hills 
and  valleys  made  by  snow  banks  swept  up  by  the  storm, 
before  the  mystery  of  that  thread  of  smoke  could  be  fully 
solved. 

But  the  way  was  easy,  and  he  hurried  on.  The  brief 
day  was  passing  rapidly.  Strangely  enough  all  thought  of 
time  had  passed  from  him.  It  no  longer  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  to  return  to  his  own  camp  to  make  his  prepara- 
tions for  his  contemplated  journey  back  to  the  creek.  He 
had  become  solely  absorbed  with  the  quest  in  hand.  That, 
and  that  alone,  seemed  to  matter. 

Half  an  hour's  tramping  brought  him  within  full  and 
intimate  view  of  the  edge  of  the  woods;  and,  as  he  drew 
near,  a  further  change  crept  into  his  manner.  Once  he 
paused,  more  than  half  hidden  by  a  snow  bank,  and  gazed 
up  at  the  towering  crests  of  the  aged  pines.  He  was  im- 
pressed. These  woods  were  of  far  greater  extent  than  those 
which  had  served  him  as  a  shelter  from  the  storm.  They 
towered  dizzily,  and  spread  out  an  immense  distance  along 
the  sides  of  the  two  mountains,  between  which  they  had 
seemed  so  pinched ;  and  somehow  their  immensity  depressed 
him  with  a  feeling  of  the  smallness  of  human  life. 

It  was  from  this  moment  that  the  fresh  change  in  him 
took  place.  He  left  the  shelter  of  the  snow  bank  with  a 
curious  crouching  gait,  and  eyes  furtively  watchful.  The 


38  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

reason  of  the  change  was  quite  unapparent,  even  to  himself. 
He  knew  that  he  was  searching  for  a  sight  of  fellow- 
creatures  ;  but  what  he  did  not  know  was  that  it  was  in- 
spired by  an  active  instinct  to  avoid  contact. 

He  crept  on  from  the  shelter  of  one  snow  bank  to  the 
shelter  of  another.  He  moved  along  over  the  shallows  of 
snow  so  that  his  moccasined  feet  gave  out  no  sound.  And 
his  whole  progress  bespoke  an  almost  frantic  desire  that  his 
approach  should  not  be  witnessed  from  the  woods. 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  drew,  and,  as  the  shadows  came 
down  toward  him,  his  pace  increased  almost  to  a  run. 
Finally  the  last  sheltering  snow  bank  was  left  behind  and 
a  low  broken  scrub  replaced  it.  He  breathed  a  deep  sigh; 
the  sigh  of  a  man  who  is  relieved  beyond  words.  The  gray, 
familiar  gloom  of  the  forest  overshadowed  him,  and  he  was 
content.  Just  for  a  few  moments  he  paused  for  breath. 
Then  his  restless  spirit  urged  him  on,  and,  plunging  forward, 
the  solemn  twilight  of  the  forest  swallowed  him  up. 

For  quite  a  while  he  hurried  on  like  a  flitting  shadow  in 
the  midst  of  a  world  of  shadows.  Then,  finally,  he  paused 
listening.  The  grave-like  silence  was  quite  unbroken  by  any 
sign  of  life.  Nothing  came  to  him  stirring  the  echoes  of  that 
ages-old  world.  He  strained  hard  for  some  familiar  sound 
that  might  guide  him  to  the  spot  where  the  mysterious  camp 
lay.  But  no  such  sound  was  forthcoming. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH 

A  DEEP  stillness  prevailed  while  the  man  stood  in  profound 
contemplation  of  the  figure  beneath  the  covering  of  furs. 
The  silent  woods  suggested  the  calm  of  a  shadowed  sepoilcher. 
The  shrouded  figure  lying  at  his  feet  completed  the  sug- 
gestion. 

Tug's  eyes,  if  unsympathetic,  were  at  least  anxious.  The 
sunken  features  of  his  companion  filled  him  with  a  curious 
feeling  of  superstitious  awe  at  the  stealing,  subtle  approach 
of  death.  Death,  in  the  abstract,  had  no  terrors  for  him. 
The  sight  of  a  life  suddenly  jolted  out  of  earthly  existence 
would  have  disturbed  him  not  at  all ;  but  this  steady  march, 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH  39 

this  almost  imperceptible  progress,  stirred  those  feelings  of 
superstition  which  underlie  all  human  life. 

He  noted  the  hungry  shadows  of  an  unearthly  blue  which 
surrounded  the  sunken  eyes,  and  filled  the  hollow  sockets. 
The  greenish  tinge  in  the  pallid  flesh  revolted  him;  the  lips, 
so  drawn,  with  all  their  ruddy  ripeness  gone,  left  him  with 
a  feeling  of  positive  nausea;  while  the  utter  helplessness  in 
the  way  the  trunk  collapsed  beyond  the  rough  pillow  sup- 
porting the  lolling  head,  left  him  shrinking  at  the  thought 
of  the  speeding  life  whose  ebb  he  was  powerless  to  check. 

Well  enough  he  knew  that  death  was  hovering  well  within 
sight.  Poor  Charlie,  the  companion  of  his  fortunes,  was 
rapidly  passing  away.  There  was  no  help  he  could  bestow, 
no  real  help.  All  he  could  do  was  to  minister  to  each  whim 
expressed  in  the  thin,  struggling  voice;  for  the  rest  the 
march  of  Death  must  go  on.  For  many  days  the  end  had 
been  steadily  approaching,  and  now  the  icy  breath  in  the 
shadow  of  Death's  hovering  wings  seemed  to  add  a  chill  to 
the  wintry  air,  and  freeze  up  the  heart  in  his  own  robust 
body. 

Tug's  expression  was  one  of  hopeless  incompetence.  He 
wondered,  as  he  had  wondered  for  days,  what  he  could  do 
to  help  the  sufferer.  He  knew  that  pneumonia  had  laid  its 
clutch  upon  the  poor  wretch's  lungs,  and  all  treatment  for  it 
was  a  riddle  to  which  he  found  no  answer. 

His  eyes  lifted  from  the  dying  man,  and  he  stared  about 
him  vaguely.  They  took  in  the  squatting  dogs,  reveling 
in  the  comfort  of  the  flickering  firelight,  well  sheltered  from 
the  breath  of  winter  by  the  canvas  screen  he  had  erected 
to  shelter  his  sick  companion.  The  sight  of  these  luxuriating 
beasts  annoyed  him;  and,  with  a  vicious  kick  at  the  nearest, 
he  sent  them  scuttling  into  the  background. 

Then  he  glanced  at  his  diminished  store  of  wood.  Here  lay 
the  only  service  his  helplessness  permitted  his  thought  to 
rise  to.  Yes,  he  could  still  strive  to  keep  the  cold,  that 
stealing  cold  which  Charlie  had  cried  out  against  so  bitterly, 
that  cold  which  he  had  declared  had  eaten  into  his  very 
bones,  from  his  dying  friend.  So  he  moved  over  to  the  pile 
and  replenished  the  fire  with  liberal  hand,  till  the  last  stick 
in  his  store  had  found  its  way  to  the  hungry  flames.  Then, 
with  a  curious  patience,  almost  gentleness,  he  once  more 


40  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

tried  to  administer  the  fragrant,  but  less  savory  soup,  which 
was  always  kept  simmering  in  the  boiler  on  the  fire. 

It  was  curious  to  wratch  this  powerful  specimen  of  virile, 
unsympathetic  manhood  endeavoring  to  assume  the  inde- 
scribable gentleness  of  the  nurse.  It  fitted  him  as  ill  as 
anything  well  could,  yet  he  did  his  best.  And  no  one  knew 
better  than  he  that  his  patient  was  beyond  such  clumsy, 
well-meaning  efforts.  The  lips  remained  closed,  as  did  the 
sunken  eyes,  and  no  words  of  rough  encouragement  seemed 
to  penetrate  to  the  dull  brain  behind  them. 

At  last  Tug  put  the  pannikin  aside,  and  dropped  the  tin 
spoon  with  a  clatter.  He  could  do  no  more.  Again  he  rose 
to  his  feet  and  stood  helplessly  by. 

"Poor  devil,"  he  muttered.     "His  number's  plumb  up." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  there  came  a  slight  movement  of 
the  lolling  head.  Then  the  great  eyes  opened  slowly,  and 
stared  up  at  the  muttering  man  in  an  uncanny,  unseeing 
fashion. 

"Sure." 

The  one  word,  spoken  in  the  faintest  of  whispers,  told 
Tug  that  the  dying  man's  intellect  remained  unimpaired, 
and  the  knowledge  left  him  annoyed  with  himself  that  he 
had  spoken  aloud. 

"I'm  kind  of  sorry,  Charlie,"  he  blundered.  "I  didn't 
just  guess  you  could  hear." 

"I've — known  it — days."  The  other  struggled  painfully 
with  his  words. 

Tug  had  no  answer  for  him,  and  Charlie  went  on  in  his 
halting  fashion. 

"It — don't — matter.     I  was  thinking  of  my — folks." 

"Sure.  I  know."  Tug  sighed  in  a  relief  he  could  not 
have  explained. 

He  waited. 

For  some  time  the  sick  man  made  no  answer.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  his  straining  intellect  had  been  overtaxed,  for 
the  glazing  eyes  remained  immovable,  and,  to  the  waiting 
man,  he  might  have  been  already  dead. 

He  bent  over  him,  his  anxiety  driving  him  to  reassure 
himself.  It  was  his  movement  that  again  broke  the  deathly 
spell.  Slowly  a  gleam  of  intelligence  struggled  into  the 
staring  eyes,  and  the  man's  lips  moved. 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH  41 

"It's  my  share — my — share — of  the  gold."  He  gave  a 
short  quick  gasp.  "I  want  them — to — have — it.  It — was 
— for  them.'* 

Tug  nodded. 

"I  know.  You  always  said  you  wanted  it  for  your  folks. 
I'll — see  they  get  it.  Is — there  anything  else?" 

"No.     Say " 

Tug  waited.  As  the  silence  remained  he  urged  the  dying 
man. 

"Yes?" 

"It's  no  good.     They— they— won't— get— it." 

"What  d'you  mean — they  won't  get  it?"  Tug's  face 
flushed.  He  felt  that  his  promise  was  doubted.  A  promise 
given  in  all  good  faith,  and  under  the  spell  of  that  dreadful 
thrill,  which  never  fails  to  make  itself  felt  in  a  promise  to 
the  dying.  "I've  given  my  word.  Isn't  that  sufficient?" 

"Sure.     But —  The  man  broke  off  gasping. 

After  a  while  the  struggle  eased  and  his  whispering  voice 
became  querulous. 

"It's— it's— cold.     The — the  fire's  going— out." 

Tug  glanced  quickly  at  the  fire.  It  was  burning  brightly. 
Then  he  remembered  he  had  used  up  the  last  of  the  fuel. 

From  the  fire  he  turned  to  the  dying  man  again.  He 
understood.  It  was  the  march  of  Death,  that  cold  he  com- 
plained of.  His  hard  face  struggled  painfully  for  an  expres- 
sion of  sympathy. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  and  collect  more  wood.  I — I 
didn't  notice  the  fire  going  down.  We  must  keep  the  cold 
out  of  you." 

The  lolling  head  made  a  negative  movement. 

"You— can't.  It's— it's— all— over  me.  I'll "  An- 
other shuddering  sigh,  half  shiver,  half  gasping  for  breath, 
passed  through  the  man's  body.  Then  the  thin  eyelids 
closed,  and  no  effort  on  Tug's  part  could  produce  any 
further  sign  of  life. 

For  a  long  time  he  endeavored,  striving  by  words  of  en- 
couragement to  persuade  the  weary  eyes  to  open.  But  they 
remained  obstinately  shut.  The  man's  breathing  was  of  the 
faintest,  too;  a  sign  which  Tug  felt  was  full  of  omen.  He 
hated  his  own  helplessness ;  and  he  cursed  under  his  breath 
the  madness  of  his  attempt  to  save  his  companion  by  making 


42  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

this  wild  journey.  Back  there  on  Sixty-mile  Creek  he  felt 
that  though  the  man  had  been  doomed,  this  sudden  collapse 
into  pneumonia  might  have  been  averted.  He  had  been 
foolish,  criminally  foolish  to  make  this  mad  attempt;  and 
yet 

He  moved  away.  No,  he  could  do  nothing  else,  so  he 
might  just  as  well  go  and  gather  wood.  He  had  half  the 
day  in  front  of  him.  It  would  be  better  to  do  something 
useful  than  to  remain  there  watching  and  talking  to  a  man 
practically  dead.  Anyway  it  would  be  more  wholesome. 
He  knew  that  the  dread  of  Charlie's  death  was  growing  on 
him.  For  some  unaccountable  reason  it  was  attacking  his 
nerves.  The  woods  seemed  to  be  haunted  with  strange 
shadows  he  had  never  felt  the  presence  of  before.  He  must 
certainly  get  to  work. 

From  the  far  side  of  the  fire  he  glanced  back  at  the  ominous 
pile  of  blankets  and  furs.  He  saw  the  man's  head  move. 
It  lolled  over  to  the  other  side.  It  was  the  only  sign  of  life 
he  gave.  The  eyes  remained  closed,  and  the  ashen  lips  were 
tightly  shut. 

The  movement,  the  vision  of  that  deathly  figure  sud- 
denly set  the  strong  man's  skin  creeping.  He  hurried  away, 
almost  precipitately. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ALL-MASTERING   PASSION 

NOT  a  movement  disturbed  the  tomb-like  peace  of  the 
aged  woods;  no  sound  broke  the  profound  silence.  It  was 
as  if  even  Nature  herself  were  held  in  supreme  awe  of  the 
presence  of  Death. 

In  the  absence  of  all  restraint  Tug's  dogs  crept  toward 
the  fire,  and  crouched  within  the  radius  of  its  pleasant 
warmth,  their  great  muzzles  resting  between  outstretched 
paws,  their  fierce  eyes  staring  steadily  at  the  ruddy  flicker 
of  the  leaping  flames.  Maybe  they  were  dreaming  of  those 
savage  ancestors  from  whom  they  sprang;  maybe  memories 
of  fierce  battles,  of  gluttonous  orgies,  of  desperate  labors, 
were  crowding  pleasantly  under  the  charm  of  the  moment's 


ALL-MASTERING    PASSION  43 

ease.  But  twitching  ears  bespoke  that  curious  canine  alert- 
ness which  is  never  relaxed. 

The  moments  passed  rapidly;  moments  of  delight  which 
rarely  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  wolfish  trail  dog.  It  was  an 
oasis  of  leisure  in  lives  spent  betwixt  the  labor  of  the  trail 
and  the  settling  of  fierce  quarrels,  which,  to  the  human 
mind,  possess  no  apparent  cause. 

Then  again,  in  the  briefest  of  seconds,  the  whole  scene  was 
changed.  It  came  as  one  of  the  dogs  lifted  its  head  gazing 
intently  at  the  pile  of  furs  under  which  the  sick  man  lay. 

It  was  a  tense  moment.  Every  muscle  in  the  creature's 
powerful  body  was  set  quivering,  and  a  strange,  half  pathetic, 
half  savage  whimper  escaped  its  twitching  nostrils.  Every 
head  about  the  fire  was  abruptly  lifted,  every  ear  was  set 
pricked  alertly,  and  each  pair  of  fierce  eyes  stared  hard  in 
a  similar  direction. 

There  was  no  sign  of  movement  among  the  furs,  no  change 
of  any  sort,  nothing  whatsoever  to  arouse  such  tense  ferocity, 
even  alarm.  But  those  things  were  there  in  every  eye,  in  the 
pose  of  each  savage  creature,  in  the  slow  rising  of  harsh 
manes  until  they  bristled  high  upon  every  shoulder. 

One  dog  rose  to  its  feet. 

Each  dog  rose  slowly  in  turn;  slowly  and  watchfully. 
And  now  a  further  change  became  apparent  in  their  atti- 
tudes. All  ferocity  suddenly  died  out,  leaving  only  alarm, 
a  desperate,  currish  terror.  Manes  still  bristled  like  the 
teeth  of  fine  combs,  but  ears  were  flattened  to  lowered  heads, 
and  great  whipping  tails  curled  under,  between  crouching 
hind  legs,  while  lifted  lips  left  gleaming  fangs  displayed  in 
currish  snarls. 

Yet  the  sick  man's  bed  at  which  they  stared  still  remained 
undisturbed.  The  man  beneath  the  blankets  had  not  stirred. 
He  was  still,  so  still.  It  was  as  if  these  brutish  eyes  beheld 
something  invisible  to  the  human  eye;  something  which 
crushed  their  hearts  under  an  overwhelming  burden  of  fear. 

For  nearly  a  minute  the  statue-like  tenseness  of  attitude 
remained.  Then  the  spell  was  broken.  One  dog,  the  largest 
of  all,  the  leader  of  the  team,  the  oldest  in  the  craft  of  the 
trail,  oldest  in  years,  and,  possibly,  far  the  oldest  in  canine 
wisdom,  squatted  upon  its  haunches  and  licked  its  lips.  One 
by  one  the  rest  followed  its  example,  and,  finally,  with  sighs 


44  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

as  of  relief,  they  returned  again  to  their  luxurious  basking  in 
the  firelight. 

But  the  leader  did  not  attempt  to  return  to  the  charmed 
circle  of  the  fire.  It  seemed  as  if  he  realized  a  sense  of 
responsibility.  Presently  he  rose,  and,  with  gingerly  tip- 
toeing, moved  away  from  his  companions.  He  edged  warily 
toward  the  sick  man's  bed.  He  drew  near,  snuffing  at  the 
air,  ready  to  draw  back  instantly  should  his  wisdom  so 
prompt  him.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  drew,  and  with  lowered 
muzzle  he  snuffed  at  the  edge  of  the  bed.  With  stealthy, 
creeping  gait  he  made  his  way  toward  the  pillow,  snuffing  as 
he  went.  Then,  as  his  greenish  eyes  rested  upon  the  man's 
lolling  head,  he  again  squatted  upon  his  haunches  and  licked 
his  lips.  The  next  moment  a  low  whimper  broke  the  silence. 
It  grew  louder.  Finally  the  dog's  great  head  was  lifted,  its 
muzzle  was  thrown  high  into  the  air,  and  the  whimper  was 
changed  into  a  long-drawn-out  howl  of  amazing  piteousness. 
It  was  doling  the  death  warning  of  its  race. 

A  chorus  of  whimpered  acknowledgment  came  from  the 
fire.  The  other  dogs  stirred  restlessly,  but  that  was  all. 
The  fire  was  too  pleasant,  such  moments  as  were  just  'now 
theirs  were  all  too  few  in  their  laborious  lives  for  them  to 
emulate  the  mourning  of  their  leader.  So  they  resettled 
themselves  and  went  on  with  their  dreaming. 

Then  the  mourner  gave  up  his  office.  This  tacit  refusal 
to  join  him  had  rendered  his  position  untenable.  So,  not 
without  resentment  in  his  heart,  he,  too,  returned  to  the 
fire,  and,  with  a  sense  of  duty  duly  performed,  once  more 
buried  his  nose  between  his  paws,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
profound  meditation. 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Within  five  minutes  every  dog 
was  on  his  feet  again  thrilling  with  a  wild  feeling  of  pas- 
sionate resentment.  There  was  no  mistaking  their  mood  at 
this  fresh  disturbance.  There  was  no  craven  slinking,  there 
were  no  currish  snarls.  Each  dog  was  on  his  toes  ready  to 
battle  with  a  tangible  foe,  such  as  they  now  anticipated. 

For  some  moments  the  reason  of  the  disturbance  was  not 
apparent.  Their  supersensitive  hearing  reached  beyond 
the  range  of  that  of  their  human  masters.  But  at  last  the 
sound  of  muffled  footsteps  awoke  dimly  the  echoes  of  the 
woods.  A  man  was  approaching.  He  was  walking  swiftly, 


ALL-MASTERING    PASSION  45 

moving  along  with  the  soft  crunch  of  hurrying,  moccasined 
feet. 

His  shadowy  figure  loomed  up  out  of  the  gray  twilight  of 
the  woods;  and,  just  beyond  the  camp,  he  halted  and  hurled 
a  string  of  deep-voiced  curses  at  the  growling  dogs.  In- 
stantly the  chorus  of  canine  displeasure  ceased,  and  the 
creatures  backed  away  from  the  forbidden  pleasures  of  the 
fire.  These  animals  acknowledged  no  definite  master,  but 
they  obeyed  man.  For  such  was  their  teaching  upon  the 
trail. 

Now  the  man  came  on  fearlessly,  searching  the  camp  with 
quick,  furtive  eyes  that  had  no  scruples.  It  seemed  deserted, 
except  for  the  dogs,  the  memory  of  whose  presence  about 
the  fire  further  convinced  him  that  it  must  be  so.  Without 
hesitation  he  began  a  closer  examination ;  and  the  first  thing 
to  interest  him  was  the  sled,  with  its  rough  harness  spread 
out  just  where  the  dogs  had  been  freed  from  their  traces. 
Instant  recognition  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"Tug's !"  he  murmured.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added, 
"I  wonder." 

His  interest  rose  swiftly,  and  his  quick-moving  eyes 
passed  on  to  the  bed,  with  its  pile  of  furs.  Just  for  a 
moment  he  hesitated.  It  was  almost  as  if  some  premonition 
of  what  lay  beneath  them  gave  him  pause.  Then,  with  a 
movement  almost^  of  defiance,  he  stepped  toward  it  and 
dropped  on  one  knee  beside  the  pillow.  Again  there  came  a 
pause,  but  his  turned  ear  explained  it.  He  was  listening. 
Listening  for  the  sound  of  breathing.  But  no  sound  came 
to  him ;  and,  at  last,  with  no  great  gentleness,  he  turned  back 
the  cover. 

An  ashen  face  with  staring  sightless  eyes  looked  up  into 
his ;  and  for  long  moments  he  remained  bent  over  it,  lost 
in  a  profound  study  of  what  he  beheld.  Then  slowly  he 
raised  one  powerful  hand,  and,  with  something  like  shrinking, 
pressed  an  outstretched  finger  against  the  dropped  jaw.  It 
yielded  to  his  touch,  and  the  mouth  shut,  but  the  moment 
the  pressure  was  relaxed  it  slowly  reopened,  and  resumed 
its  deathly  gape. 

"Dead!"  he  muttered;  and  the  meaning  of  the  camp 
pu/zled  him  no  longer. 

He  raised  his  head   and  glanced   from   the   empty  sled, 


46  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

empty  of  all  but  the  store  of  dog  food,  to  the  tent,  and  a 
wild  passionate  light  shone  in  his  eyes.  His  whole  expres- 
sion had  changed,  merged  into  one  of  desperate  desire.  The 
dead  man  was  instantly  forgotten.  All  speculations  were 
forgotten  for  the  moment,  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  the  return  of  the  living  Tug.  His  busy  brain 
was  full  of  excitement  which  set  his  pulses  hammering,  and 
the  blood  rushing  through  his  veins.  But  he  had  not  stirred 
from  his  place  beside  the  dead. 

He  turned  his  head  much  in  the  manner  of  a  man  hunted, 
and  dreading  his  own  shadow.  His  eyes  peered  out  into 
the  gray  twilight  of  the  forest.  He  was  listening,  too. 
Listening  for  that  sound  which  was  to  tell  him  of  the  return 
of  the  owner  of  the  camp.  But  no  sound  reached  him.  He 
saw  that  the  dogs  had  crawled  back  to  the  fire,  and  their 
attitude  further  told  him  that  they  were  still  unaware  of 
any  approach. 

His  eyes  came  back  to  the  tent  and  a  torrent  of  thought 
poured  its  flood  through  channels  which  seemed  bursting 
under  the  sudden  pressure ;  and  through  it  all  passed  a  vague 
wonder  as  to  what  God  or  devil  had  inspired  him  to  seek 
out  the  mystery  of  this  camp. 

But  he  sought  no  answer.  He  desired  no  answer.  He 
knew  that  an  irresistible  passion  was  driving  him,  a  passion 
he  had  no  desire  to  thwart,  a  passion  he  hugged  to  himself 
and  whose  influence  warmed  him  to  an  almost  insane  joy. 
And  under  its  strange  driving  he  became  active.  A  hundred 
thoughts  swept  through  his  brain,  each  finding  expression 
in  his  swiftly  moving  eyes. 

Again  he  surveyed  the  camp.  The  dogs  still  hugged  the 
now  low-burning  fire.  From  the  fire  he  turned  to  the  spot 
where  the  fuel  store  had  evidently  been  kept.  There  was  no 
more  wood,  and  the  axe  was  gone,  and  thus  he  accounted  for 
Tug's  absence.  Furthermore  he  understood  that  he  might 
return  at  any  moment.  Therefore  if  he  were  to  act  at  all  it 
must  be  at  once. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  swiftly  across  to  the  tent, 
and  as  he  went  the  memory  of  all  he  had  lost  upon  the  trail 
swept  over  him.  He  told  himself  he  had  been  robbed,  robbed 
just  as  surely  as  if  human  hands  had  wrested  from  him  the 
prize  he  had  toiled  so  desperately  to  win.  This  came  in 


ALL-MASTERING    PASSION  47 

answer  to  the  voice  of  conscience;  but  conscience  had  no 
power  against  the  driving  force  which  was  the  whole  sul> 
stance  of  his  life.  Some  strange  fate  had  driven  him  toward 
an  opportunity  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  miss.  Charlie, 
that  mild,  harmless  partner  of  Tug  was  dead;  and  Tug — 
well,  Tug  was  probably  living,  but  he  had  never  been  a  friend 
of  his.  He  had  always  felt  subtly  antagonistic  toward  him. 
What  mattered  if — if  he  robbed  him?  Yes,  that  was  what  he 
intended.  He  would  rob  him,  and 

He  raised  the  flap  of  the  tent  and  passed  within,  letting 
the  curtain  fall  behind  him. 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  outside.  The  dogs  stirred 
without  sound.  Their  ease  was  passing.  It  was  almost  as 
if  they  knew  that  the  law  of  club  and  trace  was  soon  to  claim 
them  again. 

In  a  few  moments  Leo  reappeared.  A  fresh  change  had 
come  over  him.  His  work  was  in  full  progress,  and  now  the 
light  in  his  eyes  was  less  straining,  less  passionate.  Now  he 
was  once  more  the  man  of  purpose,  keen,  swift-thinking, 
ready.  The  passionate  obsession  that  was  his  was  once 
more  under  control,  its  desire  having  been  satisfied  in  the 
acquisition  of  the  bag  of  gold  he  now  hugged  in  his  arms. 
The  keenest  essence  of  his  thought  was  at  work.  Possibility 
after  possibility  opened  out  in  a  series  of  pictures  before 
his  mind's  eye,  and,  with  swift  slashes,  like  the  progress  of 
the  surgeon's  knife,  his  brain  cut  them  about,  extracting 
every  detail  of  importance,  assimilating  the  living,  the  vital 
points. 

Though  powerless  to  resist  the  temptation  held  out  to 
him,  he  knew  full  well  its  meaning.  He  knew  what  possible 
consequences  hovered  on  the  horizon  of  his  future.  The 
morality  of  his  act  concerned  him  not  at  all,  but  those  other 
considerations  demanded  his  closest  attention.  All  his  plans 
must  be  reorganized.  Now  there  was  no  need  to  return  for 
laborious  years  on  Sixty-mile  Creek,  and  a  great  joy  flooded 
his  heart  at  the  thought.  He  could  take  up  his  plans  where 
they  had  been  broken  by  the  disaster  in  the  storm.  But  there 
must  be  a  difference.  There  must  be  considerable  modifica- 
tion. He  thought  of  Audie,  and  at  once  the  necessary  modifi- 
cations unrolled  before  the  keen  pressure  of  thought  he  was 
laboring  under. 


48  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Audie  and  the  Indian  could  still  go  on,  he  thought,  as 
his  eyes  surveyed  the  five  great  husky  dogs  with  satisfaction 
All  that  had  been  arranged  for  her  could  remain — for  the 
present.  She  was  still  to  remain  a  part  of  his  life.  He 
had  given  his  promise,  and  he  was  more  than  satisfied  to 
fulfill  it  when  the  time  in  his  affairs  came  for  such  fulfillment. 
Then  there  was  Tug.  Tug  must  be  provided  for ;  and  as  the 
thought  came  to  him  a  grim,  half  smile  twisted  the  corners 
of  his  compressed  lips.  Yes,  he  would  leave  him  written 
instructions,  which,  if  he  knew  the  man,  would  not  be  ignored. 

These  thoughts  passed  swiftly  through  his  mind  in  the 
midst  of  action.  He  saw  the  whole  situation  as  plainly  and 
simply  as  though  Providence  itself  had  ordained  the  whole 
scheme.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  could  upset  it — 
Tug's  premature  return.  But  he  set  the  thought  aside.  He 
would  not  contemplate  it.  That  must  take  care  of  itself. 
He  would  deal  with  it  when  it  occurred. 

Reluctantly  enough  he  bestowed  Tug's  store  of  gold  upon 
the  sled,  lashing  it  doubly  secure  after  his  disastrous  ex- 
periences. Then  he  stored  bedding  and  food  upon  the  vehicle. 
He  provided  a  sufficient  but  light  enough  load,  for  he  knew 
he  must  travel  fast  and  reach  the  coast  long  before  those 
others.  Si-wash  was  behind  him,  and  Si-wash  knew  every 
inch  of  the  trail,  whereas  he  only  had  a  vague  knowledge 
which  might  fail  him  at  any  moment. 

Within  half  an  hour  the  pack  on  the  sled  was  complete, 
and  the  great  dogs  stood  in  their  harness  ready  to  do  the 
behests  of  their  new  master  as  willingly  as  those  of  the  old. 
But  the  last  item  of  his  program  still  remained  to  be  at- 
tended to.  Leo  searched  his  pockets  and  found  the  stub  of 
a  pencil,  but  no  paper  rewarded  his  efforts.  For  a  moment 
he  was  at  a  loss.  Then  he  bethought  him  of  the  tent,  and 
passed  beneath  the  flap.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned  with 
a  sheet  of  waterproof  paper,  such  as  is  used  to  line  biscuit 
boxes,  and  he  sat  down  on  his  pack  and  began  to  write.  And 
all  the  time  he  was  writing  the  grim  twist  of  his  lips  remained. 
He  seemed  to  find  some  sort  of  warped  humor  in  what  he 
was  doing. 

His  writing  finished  he  secured  the  paper  on  the  front  of 
the  tent  where  it  must  easily  be  seen.  Then  he  stood  off 
to  read  it. 


ALL-MASTERING    PASSION  49 

"Mr  DEAR  TUG: 

"I  find  it  necessary  to  commandeer  your  gold.  Mine  is  at 
the  bottom  of  a  precipice  ten  miles  back,  if  you  care  to  make 
the  exchange.  Si-wash  will  tell  you  where.  I  suggest  you 
either  wait  here  till  they  come  along,  or  go  back  to  my  carnp 
in  the  woods,  beyond  the  broken  hill,  and  join  Si-wash  there. 
Anyway  you  can  travel  down  with  him.  They  have  dogs  and 
camp  outfit,  and  I  have  left  here  sufficient  food,  etc.,  for  your 
needs.  I  have  found  you  a  better  friend  than  I  ever  hoped  to. 
So  long.  Good  luck. 

"LEO." 

Leo  read  his  note  over  with  evident  satisfaction.  He  had 
no  scruples  whatever.  He  saw  in  one  direction  only. 
Straight  ahead  of  him,  his  eyes  turning  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left  of  the  path  of  life  he  had  marked  out  for  him- 
self. He  believed  that  the  battle  must  always  go  to  the 
strong;  sentimentality,  pity,  were  feelings  he  did  not  ac- 
knowledge. He  knew  of  their  existence,  and  deplored  them 
as  the  undermining  germ  responsible  for  the  disease  of  de- 
cadence which  has  wrought  the  destruction  of  more  than  half 
the  great  empires  in  the  world's  history.  And  what  the 
world's  history  had  not  taught  him  he  had  gleaned  from  the 
lives  of  great  men,  as  he  saw  greatness.  Greatness  to  him 
meant  conquest,  and  the  world's  conquerors  had  been  men 
utterly  devoid  of  all  the  tenderer  feelings  of  humanity.  They 
had  embarked  upon  their  careers  thrilling  with  the  lust  of 
the  ancient  savage,  or  the  ruthless  courage  of  the  animal 
kingdom,  qualities  which  he  regarded  as  the  essence  of  life,  as 
Nature  had  intended  it.  So  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  similar 
course.  He  would  rather  be  a  king  by  savage  conquest,  than 
the  hereditary  monarch  of  a  race  whose  vitality  is  slowly 
being  sapped  by  the  vampire  of  sentimentality. 

He  picked  up  Tug's  gee-pole,  and  gave  one  swift  final 
glance  over  the  camp.  Then,  stooping,  he  covered  the 
staring  face  of  the  dead  man  with  a  blanket  and  turned  to 
the  dogs. 

A  sharp  command  and  the  traces  were  drawn  taut.  An- 
other, and  the  journey  had  begun.  The  dogs,  fresh  from 
their  week  of  idleness,  strained  at  their  breast  harness,  and 
the  sled  moved  slowly,  heavily  over  the  dry  bed  of  the  forest. 


50  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  it  soon  gained  impetus,  and  the  twilit  shadows  of  the 
primordial  forest  quickly  swallowed  it  up. 

As  the  scrunch  of  the  pine-cones  under  the  steel  runners 
died  away  the  calm  of  ages  once  more  settled  upon  the  woods. 
The  dying  fire  burned  lower  and  lower,  and  the  deathly  still- 
ness was  unbroken  even  by  a  crackle  of  sputtering  flame. 
The  solitude  was  profound  and  full  of  melancholy. 

The  minutes  crept  on.  They  lengthened  into  an  hour. 
Then  far  in  the  distance,  it  seemed,  came  the  soft  pad  as 
of  some  prowling  forest  beast.  But  the  pad  quickly  changed 
to  the  soft  scrunch  of  moccasined  feet,  and,  presently,  a 
man,  bearing  a  great  load  of  wood  upon  his  broad  back, 
came  on  through  the  dusky  aisles  of  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DEAD  FIRES 

TUG  did  most  things  with  a  smile;  but  it  was  never  the 
happy  smile  of  a  pleasant  nature.  Nor  was  it  even  a  mask. 
It  was  an  expression  of  his  attitude  toward  the  world, 
toward  all  mankind.  His  eyes  conveyed  insolent  contempt ; 
and  his  smile  was  one  of  the  irritating  irony  and  cynicism 
which  permeated  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings. 

But  his  smile  was  for  those  looking  on.  There  were  times 
when  another  man  looked  out  of  the  same  eyes ;  a  man  whose 
cold  heart  loomed  up  ugly  and  threatening  out  of  those 
deeper  recesses  of  feeling  which  the  shrewd  might  guess  at, 
but  were  rarely  admitted  to. 

Tug  was  a  man  whose  selfish  desire  was  above  and  before 
all  things.  He  was  of  that  temper  which  saw  injustice  and 
wrong  in  every  condition  of  life  obtaining,  in  every  estab- 
lished institution  of  man,  even  in  the  very  edicts  of  Nature. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  see  anything  but  through  the 
jaundiced  light  of  his  own  utter  selfishness.  Every  condition 
over  which  he  had  no  control  contained  a  threat,  which,  in 
his  view  of  things,  was  directed  against  the  fulfillment  of  his 
desires.  He  wanted  the  world  and  all  its  possibilities  for 
comfort,  pleasure,  profit,  for  his  own,  without  the  effort  of 
making  it  so;  and  had  he  obtained  it  he  would  undoubtedly 


DEAD    FIRES  51 

have  grumbled  that  there  was  no  fence  set  up  as  a  bar  to  all 
trespassers  upon  his  property. 

He  detested  the  thought  that  others  held  possessions 
which  he  had  not.  But  it  was  not  his  way  to  air  his  griev- 
ance from  a  personal  point  of  view.  He  adopted  a  subtler 
course,  and  a  common  enough  course  among  men  of  his 
class.  He  cloaked  his  own  selfishness  under  a  passionate 
plea  for  those  others  similarly  debarred,  railing  at  the  in- 
justice of  the  distribution  of  the  world's  benefits,  and  storm- 
ing against  class  distinctions  and  all  the  lesser  injustices 
which  went  to  make  up  the  dividing  line  between  capacity 
and  incapacity.  In  short  he  was,  though  as  yet  unpro- 
fessed,  a  perfect  example  of  the  modern  socialist  whose 
utter  selfishness  prompts  methods  and  teachings  which  are 
the  profoundest  outrage  against  the  doctrines  of  the  Divine 
Master,  who  demanded  that  man  should  love  his  neighbor 
as  himsejf. 

Tug  had  not  the  moral  courage  for  an  open  fight,  and 
here  he  was  far  inferior  to  the  greater  adventurer,  Leo. 
Leo  would  drive  roughshod  over  everybody  and  everything; 
the  whole  wide  world  if  necessary.  He  would  gain  his  end 
by  the  frank  courage  of  the  fighter,  which  must  always 
command  a  certain  admiration,  even  if  condemnation  goes 
with  it.  But  Tug  had  no  such  qualities.  It  was  for  him 
to  wriggle  and  twist,  using  anybody  and  anything,  by  subtle 
underhand  workings,  to  achieve  a  similar  purpose.  But 
again,  even  in  his  purpose  he  was  Leo's  inferior.  Leo's 
desire  was  for  victory,  victory  in  the  great  struggle  of 
modern  life,  and  not  for  the  fleshpots  which  that  victory 
would  entitle  him  to.  Tug  desired  victory,  too,  but  it  was 
that  he  might  taste  the  sweetest  morsels  which  those  flesh- 
pots  contained.  Whichever  way  the  struggle  went  there 
could  be  little  doubt  as  to  who  would  claim  the  applause 
from  the  balconies  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain. 

When  Tug  reached  his  camping  ground  he  found  himself 
in  a  land  of  dead  fires.  The  cold,  gray  ashes  were  every- 
where about  him.  Life  had  gone;  hope  had  fled.  And  the 
charred  embers  of  the  camp-fire  in  the  center  of  it  were  the 
symbol  of  the  ruin. 

His  quick  eyes  took  in  the  picture,  while  his  cold  heart 
read  something  of  the  meaning  of  what  he  beheld.  The 


52  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

absence  of  his  dogs  first  drew  his  attention,  and  this  was 
su  ifty  followed  by  the  realization  that  his  sled  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  Then  his  eyes  caught  the  notice  which  was 
written  on  biscuit  paper  and  secured  to  the  front  of  his 
tent.  He  threw  down  his  burden  of  dead  wood,  which  had 
still  remained  upon  his  back,  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
message  Leo  had  left  him. 

For  long  minutes  he  stood  while  the  words,  the  bitter, 
ironical  sentences,  sank  deep  into  his  selfish  heart.  Here  he 
was  treated  to  the  very  attitude  he  loved  to  assume  himself, 
and  it  lashed  him  to  a  cold,  deadly  fury.  Again  and  again 
he  read  the  message  and  each  time  he  read  it  he  found  fresh 
fuel  with  which  to  build  the  icy  fire  of  his  rage.  The  theft 
itself  was  maddening,  but  strangely  enough  the  tone  of 
impudent  triumph  in  which  Leo  addressed  him  drove  him 
hardest.  All  that  was  worst  in  him  was  stirred,  and  the 
worst  of  this  man  was  something  so  malignant  and  unsavory 
that  the  absent  Leo  might  well  have  shrunk  before  its  pur- 
suing shadow. 

No  word  passed  his  lips ;  no  expression  changed  his  fea- 
tures, except  for  the  sudden  cold  pallor  which  had  spread 
itself  over  them.  Words  rarely  expressed  his  deeper  feel- 
ings ;  he  was  not  the  man  to  storm  in  his  despair.  His  whole 
mind  and  body  were  concentrated  in  a  deadly  desire  to  find 
a  means  of  coming  up  with  the  man  who  had  injured  him. 
With  each  passing  moment  the  words  of  the  message 
gravened  themselves  deeper  and  deeper  upon  his  mind,  until 
they  filled  his  whole  thought,  and  left  him  panting  for  re- 
venge. As  long  as  he  lived  that  message  would  float  before 
his  mind's  eye,  that  message  which  told  him  of  the  dead  fires 
about  him,  that  message  staring  out  at  him  upon  the  wreck 
of  all  his  hopes.  Yes,  as  long  as  he  lived  that  moment  would 
stay  with  him.  As  long  as  he  lived  he  would  wait  for  the 
ruin,  even  the  life  of  the  man  who  had  wronged  him. 

Suddenly  he  made  a  movement  with  his  moccasined  heel. 
It  was  his  only  expression.  The  pine-cones  crushed  under 
it;  and  to  him  it  was  the  life  of  the  man,  Leo,  he  was  crush- 
ing out. 

With  a  steady  hand  he  reached  out  and  removed  the  paper 
from  its  fastenings.  He  folded  it  deliberately,  carefully,  and 
bestowed  it  in  an  inner  pocket.  Somehow  its  possession  had 


DEAD    FIRES  53 

suddenly  become  precious  to  him,  and  a  certain  contentment 
was  his  as  he  turned  away  and  seated  himself  on  an  up- 
turned box. 

It  might  have  seemed  curious  that  he  made  110  attempt 
to  search  his  camp.  It  would  have  been  natural  enough. 
But  that  was  the  man.  In  his  mind  there  was  no  need  for 
search.  The  message,  he  knew,  told  the  truth,  and  the  blow 
had  fallen  upon  a  nature  that  would  not  uselessly  rack  its 
feelings  by  vain  hopes  such  as  a  search  might  inspire.  Be- 
sides, he  knew  this  man  Leo.  He  knew  him,  and  hated  him; 
and  in  his  hatred  he  believed  that  the  thought  of  his  vain 
searching  would  give  his  despoiler  malicious  pleasure. 

For  long  he  sat  there  before  the  dead  fire.  His  comrade 
remained  unheeded.  He  was  thinking,  thinking  desperately 
in  his  cold  fashion.  And  curiously  enough  the  possession 
of  that  paper  helped  to  inspire  him.  Already  he  contem- 
plated it  as  a  sort  of  token  that,  in  the  end,  he  would  return 
an  hundredfold  the  injury  done  him.  Yes,  it  should  be 
his  mascot  through  life,  it  should  be  a  guiding  star  to  his 
whole  career.  It  should  be  his  inspiration  when  the  moment 
came.  No  thought  of  any  law  entered  his  mind.  He  knew 
that  the  crimes  of  this  bitter  northern  world  were  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  laws  of  civilized  man.  No,  the  only  law 
that  could  serve  him  was  the  law  that  each  made  for  him- 
self. He  would  make  his  own  law — when  the  time  came. 
There  would  be  no  mercy.  Mercy?  He  smiled.  And  it 
was  a  smile  so  cruel  and  cold  that  it  might  well  have  damped 
the  courage  of  the  great  Leo  himself. 

Night  closed  down  before  Tug  stirred  from  his  seat ;  and 
when  the  movement  came  it  wras  inspired  by  the  bitter  cold 
which  had  eaten  into  his  stiffening  joints,  and  the  gnawings 
of  hunger  to  which  he  had  been  so  long  oblivious. 

He  rose  abruptly.  The  present  was  with  him  again,  the 
dread  present  of  the  bitter  northern  trail;  and  he  set  to 
work  with  all  the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  understands  the 
needs  of  the  moment,  and  has  no  thought  beyond  them.  He 
rekindled  the  fire,  and  boiled  the  water  for  his  tea.  He  pre- 
pared the  dried  fish  and  cooked  it.  Then  he  sat  down  and 
devoured  his  meal  with  all  the  relish  of  a  hungry  man  without 
a  care  in  the  world. 

But  he  did  not  seek  his  blankets  afterwards.      The  fire  had 


54  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

warmed  his  bones,  and  the  food  had  satisfied  his  craving 
stomach.  So  he  remained  where  he  was,  smoking  and  think- 
ing; dreaming  the  ugly  dreams  of  a  mind  devoid  of  any  of 
the  tenderer  thoughts  of  humanity. 

Hours  passed,  and  the  long  sleepless  night  dragged  on 
toward  a  gray,  hopeless  dawn;  and,  by  the  time  the  black 
woods  began  to  change  their  hue,  and  the  gray  to  creep 
almost  imperceptibly  down  the  aged  aisles,  his  last  plans 
were  complete. 

Then  he  arose  and  stretched  himself.  He  put  his  pipe 
away,  and  replenished  the  fire  with  the  last  of  the  wood, 
finally  setting  water  thereon  to  boil.  Then,  picking  up  his 
axe,  he  moved  off  into  the  deeps  of  the  wood. 

In  half  an  hour  he  returned  with  a  burden  of  rough-hewn 
stakes  which  he  flung  down  beside  the  fire,  while  he  prepared 
his  breakfast.  He  devoured  his  meal  hurriedly,  and  within 
another  half  hour  was  at  work  upon  his  final  tasks. 

He  stored  all  his  property  inside  the  tent,  removing  the 
furs  and  blankets  from  his  dead  comrade.  It  almost  seemed 
like  desecration.  Yet  Tug  knew  what  he  was  at.  It  would 
not  do  to  leave  the  body  encased  in  warm  furs.  The  man 
would  have  to  be  buried — later.  In  the  meantime  the  cold 
would  freeze  the  body,  and  preserve  it  until  such  time. 

Now  the  purpose  of  his  stakes  became  evident.  Even 
Tug,  selfish  and  callous  as  he  was,  acknowledged  his  duties 
to  the  dead.  He  knew  the  prowling  scavengers  of  the  forests 
too  well  to  leave  his  comrade  without  sufficient  protection. 
So  he  proceeded  to  secure  the  body  under  a  cage  of  timber 
which  would  defy  the  attacks  of  marauding  carnivora. 

With  Charlie  left  secure  his  work  was  complete.  Broad 
daylight  was  shining  among  the  rugged  crowns  of  towering 
pines.  The  moment  had  come  for  his  departure.  He  would 
obey  the  letter  of  Leo's  instructions.  He  would  follow  the 
path  he  had  marked  out  for  him.  Afterwards  he  would 
choose  his  own  path;  a  path  which  he  knew,  somewhere  in 
the  future,  near  or  far,  would  eventually  bring  him  within 
striking  distance  of  the  quarry  he  intended  to  hunt  down. 


SI-WASH    CHUCKLES  55 

CHAPTER  VIII 

SI-WASH    CHUCKLES 

IT  was  Si-wash  who  first  witnessed  the  approach  of  the 
newcomer ;  and  he  at  once  realized  that  it  was  not  the  return 
of  his  friend,  Leo,  the  man  whom  he  still  liked,  in  spite  of 
the  madness  which  he  believed  now  possessed  him. 

So  he  watched  thoughtfully  from  the  shadow  of  the  fringe 
of  the  forest.  He  peered  out  over  the  white  plain  upon 
which  an  ineffective  sun  poured  its  steely  rays,  while  he 
studied  the  details  of  figure  and  gait,  which,  in  a  country 
where  contact  with  his  fellows  was  limited,  were  not  likely 
to  leave  him  in  doubt  for  long. 

Presently  he  vanished  within  the  woods.  He  went  to 
convey  his  news  to  the  waiting  woman,  the  woman  whose 
heart  was  full  of  a  dread  she  could  not  shake  off,  whose  love 
was  silently  calling,  calling  for  the  return  of  the  man  who 
was  her  whole  world. 

But  his  news  must  be  told  in  his  own  way,  a  way  which, 
perhaps,  only  an  Indian,  and  those  whose  lives  are  spent 
among  Indians,  can  understand. 

He  came  to  the  fire  and  sat  down,  squatting  upon  his 
haunches,  and  remained  silent  for  some  minutes.  Then  he 
picked  up  a  red-hot  cinder  and  lit  his  black  clay  pipe,  which 
he  produced  from  somewhere  amidst  the  furs  which  encased 
his  squat  body. 

"We  go  bimeby,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause.  "No  storm 
— no  snow.  Him  very  fine.  Good." 

Audie's  brooding  eyes  lifted  from  the  fire  to  the  Indian's 
broad  face.  All  her  fear,  all  her  trouble  was  shining  in 
their  depths.  The  man  saw  and  understood.  But  he  did 
not  comment. 

"We  can't  go — yet,"  she  said.  "We  must  wait.  Leo  will 
come  back.  Oh,  I'm  sure  he'll  come  back." 

The  Indian  puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  finally  spat  a  hissing 
stream  into  the  fire. 

"Maybe,"  he  said. 

The  woman's  face  flushed. 

"Maybe?  Of  course  he'll  come  back,"  she  cried  with 
heat.  "He — he  has  gone  to  collect  wood." 


56  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  Indian  nodded  and  went  on  smoking. 

"Him  fetch  wood.  Sure,"  he  said  presently.  "Him  go 
day — night — morning.  Si-wash  fetch  wood.  One  hour — 
two — three.  Then  Si-wash  come  back.  Si-wash  not  crazy." 

Suddenly  Audie  sprang  to  her  feet.  Her  eyes  flashed, 
and  a  fierce  anger  swept  through  her  whole  body. 

"Leo  is  not  crazy.  Don't  dare  to  say  he  is,"  she  cried 
vehemently.  "I — I  could  kill  you  for  saying  it." 

The  Indian  gave  no  sign  before  the  woman's  furious 
threat.  He  smoked  on,  and  when  she  had  once  more  dropped 
to  her  seat,  and  the  hopeless  light  in  her  eyes  had  once  more 
returned,  he  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"Si-wash — you  kill  'em.  It  no  matter.  Leo,  him  crazy 
still.  You  stop  here — an'  freeze.  So.  It  much  no  good." 

The  man's  good  humor  was  quite  unruffled,  and  Audie,  in 
spite  of  her  brave  defence  of  her  lover,  despairingly  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"But  he  will  come  back,  Si-wash!"  she  cried  haltingly. 
"Say  he  will.  You  know  him.  You  understand  him.  He 
must  come  back.  Say  he  must.  He  can  never  travel  this 
country  on  foot,  without  food  or  shelter.  Oh,  say  he  must 
come  back!" 

But  Si-wash  was  not  to  be  cajoled  from  his  conviction. 
He  saw  the  woman's  misery,  but  it  meant  nothing  to  his 
unsentimental  nature.  Leo  had  gone.  Well,  why  should 
she  worry?  There  were  other  men  in  the  world.  This  is 
what  he  felt,  but  he  would  not  have  expressed  it  so.  Instead 
of  that  he  merely  shook  his  head,  and  spoke  between  the 
puffs  of  his  reeking  pipe. 

"Leo  no  come.  But  the  other,  him  come.  Tug,  him  come 
quick.  Maybe  him  speak  of  Leo." 

In  a  flash  the  girl's  beautiful  eyes  shot  a  gleaming  inquiry 
into  the  man's  coppery  face. 

"Tug?  Tug  coming  here?  It's — it's  you  who're  crazy. 
Tug  is  miles  away.  He  must  be  getting  near  the  coast  by 
now.  He  must  be  safe  by  now,  safe  with  his  precious  gold." 

"Maybe  him  not  safe.     Maybe  him  lose  him  gold,  too." 

"You  mean ?" 

Audie  caught  her  breath  as  she  left  her  inquiry  unfinished. 

"Nothing.  All  same  Tug  him  come  here.  I  see  him. 
Hark?  Sho!  That  him— he  mak  noise." 


SI-WASH    CHUCKLES  57 

The  Indian  turned  slowly  round  and  stared  out  into  the 
twilit  woods.  Audie  followed  the  direction  of  his  gaze  and 
sat  spellbound,  listening  to  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet  as 
they  crushed  the  brittle  underlay  of  the  woods.  The 
Indian's  dogs,  too,  had  become  alert.  They  were  on  their 
toes,  with  bristling  manes  and  deep-throated  grumbling  at 
the  intrusion. 

As  Tug  came  up  Si-wash  rose  and  clubbed  the  dogs 
cordially.  In  a  moment  ,they  had  resumed  their  places 
beyond  the  fire  circle,  and,  squatting  on  their  haunches, 
licked  their  lips  and  yawned  indifferently. 

"Tug !" 

Audie  was  on  her  feet  staring  at  the  apparition  of  the  man 
she  had  believed  was  even  now  nearing  the  coast. 

Nor  did  the  man's  usual  ironical  smile  fail  him. 

"Sure.  Didn't  you  guess  I'd  get  around  after — what  has 
happened?" 

Audie  eyed  him  blankly  as  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 
The  Indian,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire,  had  not  stirred 
from  his  seat.  For  the  moment  he  was  forgotten  by  these 
white  people.  He  moved  now.  It  was  a  slight  movement. 
Very  slight.  He  merely  thrust  one  of  his  lean  hands  inside 
his  furcoat. 

His  movement  was  quite  unnoticed  by  the  others,  and  as 
Audie  stared,  quite  at  a  loss  for  words,  the  man  went  on — 

"Well?  He's  got  away  with  it.  Maybe  you're — 
satisfied." 

Tug's  smile  was  unequal  to  the  task.  The  cold  rage 
under  it  made  its  way  into  his  eyes.  And  as  she  listened  a 
curious  change  crept  into  Audie's  eyes,  too.  Si-wash,  with 
his  attention  apparently  on  the  fire,  was  yet  quite  aware  of 
the  change  in  both,  and  his  hand  remained  buried  in  the 
bosom  of  his  furcoat. 

Audie  had  suddenly  become  very  cool.  She  pointed  at 
the  box  which  had  been  Leo's  seat. 

"You'd  better  sit  down,"  she  said  coldly.  "You  seem  to 
have  something  to  tell  me." 

"Tell  you?"  Tug  laughed.  "Do  you  need  telling?"  he 
asked,  as  he  dropped  upon  the  seat. 

Audie  resumed  her  place  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire. 

The  Indian  smoked  on. 


58  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"You'd  best  tell  us  all  you've  got  to  tell,"  Audie  said, 
with  cold  severity.  "At  the  present  moment  you  appear  to 
be  quite  mad  or — foolish." 

Her  manner  had  the  effect  of  banishing  the  man's  hateful 
smile.  He  stared  at  her  incredulously,  and,  from  her  icy 
face,  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  motionless  figure  of  the  silent 
Indian. 

"What  the  hell!"  he  cried  suddenly.  "Do  you  want  to 
tell  me  that  you  don't  know  what  Leo's  done?  Do  you  want 
to  tell  me  the  whole  lousy  game  isn't  a  plant,  put  up  by  the 
three  of  you?  Do  you  want  to  tell  me ?" 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  you're  talking  like  a  skunk.  If  you've 
got  anything  to  tell  us  tell  it  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  or 
— get  out  back  to  your  camp." 

It  was  a  different  woman  talking  now;  a  very  different 
woman  to  the  forlorn  creature  who  had  appealed  to  Si-wash 
a  few  minutes  ago.  Just  for  a  second  the  Indian's  eyes 
flashed  a  look  in  her  direction,  and  it  was  one  of  cordial 
approval. 

But  neither  of  the  others  saw  it,  and  if  they  had  it  is 
doubtful  if  either  would  have  understood.  For  the  mind  of 
Si-wash  was  one  of  those  deep,  silent  pools,  far  more  given 
to  reflection  than  revealing  their  own  secrets. 

Tug  stared  brutally  into  the  woman's  face.  Audie  was 
displaying  a  side  to  her  character  he  had  never  witnessed 
before.  She  was  alone  with  him — the  Indian  didn't  count 
in  his  reckoning — she  had  no  hesitation  in  dictating  to  him, 
even,  as  he  chose  to  regard  it,  insulting  him.  His  astonish- 
ment gave  him  pause,  and  he  pulled  himself  together.  Then 
he  found  himself  obeying  her  in  a  way  he  had  never  thought 
of  doing. 

Suddenly  he  thrust  his  hand  into  the  bosom  of  his  clothing 
and  withdrew  it  swiftly.  His  whole  action  was  the  impulsive 
result  of  a  rush  of  passionate  feeling.  Nor  did  it  require 
his  words  to  tell  of  the  cgndition  of  mind  he  was  laboring 
under. 

"Read  that,"  he  cried  furiously,  "if  you  are  as  ignorant 
of  his  doings  as  you  make  out.  Read  it,  and — and  be 
damned." 

He  flung  out  his  arm  across  the  fire,  his  hand  grasping 
the  biscuit  paper  on  which  the  fateful  message  was  written. 


SI-WASH    CHUCKLES  59 

Quite  undisturbed  by  his  brutality  Audie  took  the  paper  and 
unfolded  it. 

"It  was  left  fastened  on  the  front  of  my  tent  while  I  was 
away  fetching  wood,"  Tug  went  on  bitterly.  "I  came  back 
to  find  my  dogs  gone,  my  sled,  half  my  stores,  Charlie  dead, 
he  had  been  dying  for  a  week,  and — and  that  paper.  Read 
it — curse  it,  read  for  yourself." 

The  Indian  never  once  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  fire,  the 
warmth  of  which  was  an  endless  source  of  comfort  to  him. 
He  was  thinking,  thinking  of  many  things  in  the  deep,  silent 
way  of  his  race. 

Tug  waited  impatiently  while  the  woman  devoured  the 
contents  of  the  message.  She  read  it  once — twice — even  a 
third  time  through;  and  while  she  read,  though  her  expres- 
sion remained  the  same,  all  her  emotions  were  stirred  to  fever 
heat.  She  was  thinking  swiftly,  eagerly,  her  brain  quickened 
to  a  pitch  it  had  never  realized  before.  Her  love  for  Leo 
was  urging  her  the  more  fully  to  grasp  the  position  in  which 
his  latest  act  had  placed  him. 

This  outrage  against  the  man,  Tug,  in  no  way  lessened  her 
concern  for  her  lover,  for  his  welfare.  The  primitive  woman 
was  always  uppermost  in  her.  She  cared  not  a  jot  that 
Tug  had  been  despoiled.  Leo  was  well,  Leo  was  alive  and 
safe.  But  was  he  safe — now? 

A  sudden  alarm  along  fresh  lines  startled  her.  The 
meaning  of  what  she  read  took  a  fresh  complexion.  Leo 
had  robbed — robbed  this  man.  What  must  follow  if  it  were 
known? 

For  a  moment  this  alarm  shuddered  through  her  body. 
Then  she  steadied  herself.  Her  mind  suddenly  became  very 
clear  and  decided.  She  suddenly  saw  her  course  clear  before 
her,  and  her  voice  broke  the  tense  silence  round  the  crackling 
fire.  She  read  the  message  for  the  fourth  time.  Read  it 
aloud  slowly. 

As  she  proceeded  the  impassive  face  of  the  Indian  re- 
mained unchanged.  He  was  listening — listening  acutely, 
but  so  still,  so  indifferent  was  his  attitude  that  the  chafing 
Tug  scarcely  realized  his  presence. 

Audie's  voice  ceased,  and  for  a  moment  no  one  spoke. 
Then  with  a  muttered  imprecation  Tug  held  out  his  hand. 

"Give  me  the  — =r-s  paper,"  he  cried  roughly. 


60  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Audie  did  not  appear  to  hear  him. 

"Pass  it  over!"  he  demanded,  still  more  roughly. 

The  woman  looked  up  at  him.  Then  she  held  the  paper 
out,  as  though  to  pass  it  across  to  his  outstretched  hand. 
The  next  moment  it  dropped  from  her  fingers  and  fluttered 
into  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

With  a  wild  ejaculation  Tug  sprang  to  rescue  it,  but 
even  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  he  stood  transfixed.  The  muzzle 
of  a  revolver  was  covering  him,  and  behind  the  muzzle  was 
the  copper-hued  visage  of  the  forgotten  Si-wash. 

"Let  'em  burn,"  he  said,  in  his  low  guttural  tones.  "Him 
writing  heap  bad  med'cine." 

The  paper  curled  up  and  burst  into  flame.  Tug,  furious 
but  helpless,  watched  the  hungry  flames  devour  it.  Then, 
as  it  crumbled  away  into  the  red  heart  of  the  fire,  Si-wash 
returned  to  his  seat.  But  his  revolver  remained  upon  his 
knee,  and  his  thin,  tenacious  fingers  gripped  the  butt  of  it 
firmly. 

"Si-wash  is  right,"  said  Audie  coldly.  She  had  not  risen 
from  her  seat.  "Leo  was  foolish  to  write  that.  Still,  I  am 
glad — now — that  he  did.  It  has  told  me  what  to  do.  You 
see,  he  said  nothing  when  he  went  from  here,  and  I  thought 
I  should  never  see  him  again.  Now  I  know  that  I  shall. 
Now  I  know  that  he  is  well  and  safe — yes,  safe,  since  that 
paper  is  destroyed.  Well" — she  looked  her  visitor  squarely 
in  the  eyes — "what  are  you  going  to  do?  You  are  welcome 
to  avail  yourself  of  our  transport,  as  Leo  suggests — under 
conditions." 

Tug's  fury  held  him  silent.  His  busy  brain  was  searching 
for  a  means  to  escape  from  the  dictation  of  this  woman, 
for  a  means  by  which  to  assume  domination  of  the  position 
for  himself.  As  yet  he  could  see  none. 

So  Audie  went  on  with  the  tacit  approval  of  her  faithful 
comrade. 

"You  can  travel  with  us,  but  you  will  carry  no  firearms. 
You  see,  I  don't  anticipate  that  your  feelings  are  particu- 
larly kindly  toward  us.  Anyway  we'll  take  no  chances.  You 
can  go  home  to  your  camp  now.  To-morrow  morning,  if  the 
weather  holds,  you  can  join  us.  We'll  meet  you  in  the  open, 
somewhere  near  your  camp.  Mind,  in  the  open,  and  you'll 
come  to  us  with  your  hands  up.  We  shall  then  search  you 


SI-WASH    CHUCKLES  61 

for  weapons.  After  that,  if  things  are  satisfactory,  we'll 
take  your  outfit  on  our  sled,  and  you  can  travel  with  us. 
Remember,  Leo's  welfare  is  my  one  care.  Well?" 

Tug  rose.  In  a  moment  the  Indian's  gun  was  covering 
him. 

"Look  'im  over  for  gun — now,"  Si-wash  said,  addressing 
Audie  in  his  brief  guttural  fashion. 

Audie  nodded. 

"You'd  best  put  up  your  hands,  Tug,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat.  "Si-wash  is  a  dead  shot." 

Tug  obeyed.  His  hands  went  slowly  up,  and  Audie 
passed  round  the  fire,  and  undid  his  fur  coat.  As  she  did 
so  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"You've  got  them  both  on,"  she  said,  unstrapping  the 
ammunition  belt  supporting  two  revolvers  about  his  waist. 
"That'll  simplify  matters.  You  see,  I  know  them.  One  is 
Charlie's,  and  the  other  yours.  They  are  the  only  guns  you 
possess.  Good.  Now  you  best  go." 

But  the  compelling  gun  of  the  Indian  could  no  longer 
keep  Tug  silent,  and  his  pent  anger  broke  out  in  harsh 
abuse. 

"You !"  he  shouted.  "You  think  I  can't  get  back 

on  you,  but  I  can.  I  will.  I'll  get  your  man,  Leo,  if  I 
wait  years.  I'll  break  him — I'll  break  the  life  out  of  him. 
I'll— 

"Maybe."  There  was  a  hard  glitter  in  Audie's  eyes  as 
she  interrupted  him.  "One  thing,  you've  got  no  evidence 
against  him.  Charlie  is  dead,  and — that  paper  is  burnt. 
It  is  your  word  against  his.  When  you  meet  it  will  be  man 
to  man,  and  I  don't  guess  there's  a  doubt  who's  the  best  man. 
You  best  go  home  now." 

Tug  made  no  attempt  to  obey.  He  was  about  to  speak 
again — to  hurl  some  filthy  epithet  at  the  woman,  who  had 
outwitted  him  for  her  love's  sake,  but  the  Indian  gave  him 
no  chance.  In  a  second  the  threatening  gun  was  raised 
again. 

"Go  'm  quick !    Dam  quick !"  Si-wash  cried  savagely. 

Tug's  eyes  caught  the  threatening  ring  of  metal.  For  a 
moment  he  hesitated.  Then  he  turned  and  strode  off. 

The  steady  eyes  of  the  Indian  watched  him  until  the  woods 
had  swallowed  him  up.  Then  he  turned,  and  followed  silently 


62  THE    WAY   OF   THE    STRONG 

in  his  wake,  while  Audie  remained  to  dream  fresh  and  more 
pleasant  dreams  before  the  fire. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  looked  up  as  her  comrade  and 
champion  returned. 

"Gone?"  she  asked,  with  upraised  brows. 

"Sho' !  Him  go."  Si-wash  crouched  down  over  the  fire 
and  spread  his  hands  out  to  the  warmth.  Presently  he 
looked  up  with  eyes  twinkling  with  subtle  amusement. 

"Him  big  feller,  Leo.  Good.  Him  much  gold — now.  So. 
Tug  him  no  good.  When  him  find  Leo,  Leo  kill  him.  Leo  big 
feller." 

As  he  finished  speaking  a  curious  sound  came  from  some- 
where deep  in  his  throat.  And  though  his  impassive  face 
remained  unmoved,  though  not  a  ghost  of  a  smile  was  ap- 
parent, Audie  knew  that  the  man  was  chuckling  with  sup- 
pressed glee.  She,  too,  felt  like  laughing,  and  it  was  the 
first  time  she  had  so  felt  since  the  hideous  nightmare  of  the 
storm,  and  its  accompanying  disaster. 


CHAPTER    IX 

IN    SAN    SABATANO 

SAN  SABATANO  was  not  a  big  city,  but  it  was  a  very  busy 
one.  At  least  its  citizens  thought  so,  and  their  four-sheeted 
two-cent  local  news-sheet  fostered  their  belief.  No  doubt  a 
New  Yorker  would  have  spoken  of  San  Sabatano  as  a  "Rube" 
town,  an  expression  which  implied  extreme  provincialism 
in  the  smallest  possible- way.  It  also  implied  that  its  citizens 
had  never  turned  their  eyes  upon  those  things  which  lay 
beyond  the  town-limits,  within  which  they  had  been  "raised." 
In  short,  that  they  knew  nothing  of  the  life  of  the  great 
world  about  them,  except  what  their  paper  told  them  in 
one  single  column.  Naturally  enough  one  column  of  the 
worlds  news  against  twenty  or  more  columns  of  local  interest 
gave  readers  a  false  perspective,  especially  when  every  citi- 
zen of  any  local  standing  usually  found  a  paragraph  devoted 
to  his  own  social  or  municipal  doings. 

But  then  the  editor  was  a  shrewd  journalist  of  very  wide 
experience.  No,  he  had  not  been  "raised"  in  San  Sabatano, 


IN    SAN    SABATANO  6S 

He  had  served  his  apprenticeship  on  the  live  journals  of  the 
East.  He  understood  men,  and  the  times  in  which  he  lived. 
More  than  all,  he  understood  making  money,  and  the  factor 
which  his  women  readers  were  in  that  process.  So  the 
world's  news  was  packed  into  obscure  corners,  and  San 
Sabatano  was  the  hub  around  which  his  imagination  revolved. 

So  it  came  about  that  this  individual  had  for  months 
darkly  hinted  that  the  San  Sabatano  Daily  Citizen  had  some- 
thing up  its  editorial  sleeve  with  which  it  intended  to  stagger 
humanity,  and  startle  its  readers  into  a  belief  that  an  echo 
of  the  San  Francisco  earthquake,  or  something  of  that 
nature,  had  reached  them.  He  told  them  that  the  mighty 
combination  of  brain  that  controlled  the  Daily  Citizen  and 
guided  San  Sabatano  public  opinion  had  given  birth  to  an 
epoch-making  thought ;  a  thought  which,  before  long,  when 
the  rest  of  a  sluggish  world  read  of  it,  would  lift  San 
Sabatano  as  a  center  of  enterprise,  of  learning,  of  culture, 
to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  fame  known  to  the  world. 

San  Sabatano  stood  agog  with  breathless  expectancy  for 
weeks. 

Then  came  the  humanity  staggerer. 

It  occupied  a  whole  page  of  the  Daily  Citizen.  The  type 
was  enormous,  and  had  been  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 
Fortunately  it  came  in  a  slack  time.  The  citizens  of  San 
Sabatano  had  been  so  long  held  agog  that  nothing  much 
else  had  been  doing  to  afford  the  editor  local  copy.  There- 
fore the  epoch-making  brain  wave  had  full  scope,  and  the 
use  of  a  prodigal  supply  of  black  and  red  ink. 

It  was  a  competition.     Yes,  a  mere  competition. 

That  was  the  first  disappointing  thought  of  everybody. 
It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  staggering  business  had  fizzled. 

Then  digestion  set  in,  and  hope  dawned.  Yes,  it  was  not 
so  bad.  By  Jove!  As  a  competition  it  was  rather  good. 
Good  ?  why,  it  was  splendid !  It  was  magnificent !  Wonder- 
ful! What  was  this?  A  competition  for  women  clerks. 
Speed  and  accuracy  in  stenography  and  typing.  Twelve 
prizes  of  equal  value.  Five  hundred  dollars  each,  or  a 
month's  trip  to  Europe,  including  Paris,  Vienna,  Berlin, 
Rome,  London.  And  the  final  plum  of  all.  The  winning 
twelve  to  compete  among  themselves  for  a  special  prize  in 
addition.  A  clerkship  in  the  office  of  the  Daily  Citizen  at 


64  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

two  hundred  dollars  a  month,  an  office  to  herself,  and  a 
year's  contract! 

Yes,  if  he  hadn't  staggered  humanity,  the  editor  had 
certainly  set  excitement  blazing  in  hundreds  of  young  fem- 
inine hearts,  and  upset  the  even  tenor  of  as  many  homes. 

For  weeks,  pending  the  trial  of  skill,  that  astute  individual 
nursed  his  scheme  and  trebled  his  circulation.  Nor  was  it  to 
be  wondered  at  that  many  times  during  the  preliminary 
stages  of  organization,  as  he  watched  the  increasing  daily 
returns  of  his  precious  paper,  he  sat  back  in  his  creaking 
office  chair  and  blessed  the  day  he  married  the  wife,  whose 
sister  had  just  won  a  similar  competition  somewhere  at  the 
other  side  of  the  continent. 

At  the  closing  of  the  entries  it  was  found  there  were  just 
two  thousand  competitors.  Success  for  the  scheme  was 
assured,  and  quarts  of  ink  told  the  gaping  multitude  that 
this  was  so. 

Then  came  the  day  of  the  competition.  It  was  to  be  held 
in  the  Town  Hall.  So  well  was  the  interest  and  excitement 
worked  up  that,  all  unpremeditated,  half  the  smaller  business 
houses  were  closed  for  the  day ;  a  fact  duly  commented  upon 
in  the  later  issues  of  the  paper. 

The  competition  lasted  all  day,  and  it  was  late  at  night 
when  the  last  weary,  palpitating  competitors  finally  reached 
homes,  which  were  still  in  a  state  of  anxious  turmoil. 

There  was  no  news  of  the  winners  that  night.  There  was 
none  the  next  morning.  Nor  the  next.  The  editor  knew 
his  business  and  talked  columns  in  his  own  praise,  and  in 
praise  of  the  manner  in  which  the  women  of  San  Sabatano 
had  responded  to  his  invitation. 

A  week  passed,  and  then  a  special  edition  brought  the 
long-awaited  announcement  which  dashed  the  hopes  of  one 
thousand  nine  hundred  and  eighty-eight  burstling  feminine 
hearts.  It  was  a  simple  sheet,  with  a  simple  heading.  No 
splashes  of  colored  ink.  It  gave  the  list  of  the  twelve  win- 
ners of  the  competition  in  dignified  type,  and  invited  them 
to  meet  at  the  editor's  office  at  noon  next  day,  to  compete 
for  the  coveted  special  prize. 

Among  the  names  of  the  winners  was  that  of  Monica 
Hanson. 

The  following  day  Monica  attended  the  final  competition. 


IN    SAN    SABATANO  65 

She  did  her  utmost,  spurred  on  by  the  driving  necessity  which 
had  just  been  thrust  upon  her  brave  young  shoulders.  Now 
she  was  sitting  in  the  San  Sabatano  Horticultural  Gardens 
waiting  for  the  evening  issue  of  the  paper  which  was  to  tell 
her,  in  cold,  hard  type,  the  news  which  was  either  to  crush 
her  eager  young  soul  in  despair,  or  uplift  her  to  realms  of 
ecstatic  hope  and  delight. 

Oh,  the  teeming  thought  of  those  straining  moments.  It 
flew  through  her  brain  with  lightning-like  velocity,  spasmodic, 
broken.  One  moment  she  had  visions  of  pleasures  hitherto 
denied  her  in  a  solitary  career,  eked  out  on  a  wholly  inade- 
quate pittance  doled  out  to  her  monthly  by  her  dead  mother's 
solicitors  in  far-off  New  York.  At  another  she  was  obsessed 
by  the  haunting  conviction  that  such  good  fortune  was 
impossible.  Yet  she  felt  she  had  done  well  in  the  examina- 
tion, and,  anyway,  she  would  certainly  take  that  five  hundred 
dollars  she  had  already  won  in  preference  to  the  European 
tour.  It  would  mean  so  much  to  her,  especially  now — now 
that  this  fresh  call  on  her  resources  had  been  made. 

After  long  disquieting  moments  she  finally  sprang  up  from 
her  seat.  Her  nerves  were  getting  the  better  of  her.  She 
thought  she  heard  the  raucous  call  of  the  newsboy.  She 
listened ;  her  pretty  brows  drawn  together  in  plaintive  doubt. 
Yes,  no — her  heart  was  thumping  under  the  white  lawn  shirt- 
waist she  was  wearing,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  still 
winter.  But  winter  in  San  Sabatano  was  as  pleasant  as 
many  another  town's  summer.  In  all  the  history  of  that 
beautiful  southern  Californian  town  the  thermometer  had 
never  been  known  to  register  freezing  point. 

She  made  a  pretty  picture  standing  there  amid  a  setting 
of  fantastic  tropical  vegetation.  The  cacti,  great  and  small, 
with  their  wonder-hued  blooms  and  strange  vegetation,  were 
a  fitting  background  to  the  girl's  golden  beauty.  She  was 
quite  southern  in  her  coloring,  that  wonderful  tone  of 
rich  gold  underlying  a  fair  almost  transparent  skin.  Her 
waving,  fair  hair  shone  with  a  rich,  ruddy  burnish,  crowning 
a  face  of  perfect  oval,  lit  with  eyes  of  the  deepest  blue,  which 
shone  with  pronounced  intelligence  and  strength. 

No,  her  nerves  had  not  played  tricks  with  her.  It  was 
the  newsboy.  She  could  see  him  now,  just  beyond  the  park 
gates.  He  was  selling  his  papers  all  too  fast.  So,  with 


66  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

tumultuous  feelings,  and  a  heart  hammering  violently  against 
her  young  bosom,  she  darted  off  to  catch  him. 

She  reached  the  gates  and  slackened  her  pace  to  a  decorous 
walk.  The  boy  had  just  handed  an  elderly  man  his  paper, 
and  was  searching  for  the  odd  cents  of  change  waited  for. 
Having  paid  his  customer  off  he  looked  admiringly  up  into 
Monica's  pale  face. 

His  shrewd  eyes  grinned  impishly,  and  he  winked  abun- 
dantly, so  that  the  whole  of  one  side  of  his  face  became 
painfully  distorted. 

"Say,  ain't  you  Miss  Hanson,  Miss  ?"  he  inquired,  with  the 
effrontery  of  his  kind. 

Monica's  heart  beat  harder.  But  she  replied  with  an  icy 
calmness. 

"Yes.     That's  my  name.     But " 

The  boy's  eyes  sparkled. 

"Then  I  guess  the  paper  is  sho'  worth  'two  bits'  to  you," 
he  cried,  thrusting  the  folded  sheet  at  her.  Then  his  feelings 
and  covetousness  getting  the  better  of  him,  he  added,  "Gee, 
five  hundred  dollars,  an'  two  hundred  a  month!  Say,  how 
do  it  feel  gettin'  all  that  piled  suddenly  on  to  yer.  Miss?" 

In  a  flash  Monica's  dignity  had  vanished. 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  almost  hysteri- 
cally. "I "  Her  fingers  trembled  so  violently  that  she 

tore  the  paper  nearly  to  ribbons  struggling  to  open  it  in  the 
breeze. 

The  boy  grinned. 

"Gar'n.  You  ain't  smart  any.  Guess  you  best  hand  me 
that  'quarter'  an'  I'll  show  you  wher'  to  look." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  handed  her  another  paper 
folded  at  the  right  spot,  nor,  to  his  credit,  did  he  wait  for 
the  money  in  advance. 

"You  won  it  sho',"  he  said,  and  waited  while  in  a  daze 
Monica  read  the  wonderful  news — 

"  'We  have  much  pleasure  in  announcing  that  the  winner 
of  our  Special  Prize  of  a  position  on  our  staff  at  $200  per 
month  is  Miss  Monica  Hanson,  whose  wonderful  speed,  etc., 
etc.' ' 

Monica  waited  for  no  more.  Snatching  at  her  satchel  she 
opened  it  and  drew  out  a  single  one-dollar  bill,  and  pushed 
it  into  the  willing  hand  of  the  expectant  boy. 


IN    SAN    SABATANO  67 

"Keep  the  change,"  he  heard  her  say,  as  she  almost  flew 
down  the  sidewalk  of  the  tree-shaded  main  street. 

The  boy  looked  after  her.  Then  he  looked  at  his  dollar 
bill. 

"Wai,  guess  she  ain't  got  all  the  luck  goin',"  he  murmured 
philosophically,  as  he  pocketed  the  well-worn  note. 

Monica  hurried  on  at  a  pace,  though  nearly  a  run,  far  too 
slow  to  suit  her  mood.  Never,  never  in  her  life  had  she  felt 
as  she  felt  now.  Never,  never.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  world  were  before  her  with  loving,  outstretched  arms 
and  smiling  face,  waiting  to  yield  her  all  that  her  young 
heart  most  desired.  In  a  vision  every  face  that  passed  her 
by  in  her  rush  home  seemed  to  be  wearing  a  happy  smile. 
Even  the  trees  overhead  rustled  whispered  messages  of  de- 
light and  hope  to  her  in  the  evening  breeze.  This  was  cer- 
tainly the  one  moment  of  moments  in  her  brief  seventeen 
years  of  life. 

She  had  hoped,  she  had  dared  to  hope;  but  never  in  her 
wildest  thoughts  had  she  really  expected  to  win  this  wonder- 
ful good  fortune.  Two  hundred  dollars  a  month  for  a  year ! 
Five  hundred  dollars  capital  to  work  upon!  And  all  this 
added  to  the  pittance  which  thus  far  she  had  lived  on  while 
she  studied  stenography.  It  was  too,  too  wonderful. 

She  thought  of  all  she  could  do  with  it;  and  at  once  there 
grew  on  her  joyous  horizon  the  first  threatening  cloud. 
There  was  her  sister,  the  dearly  loved,  erring,  actress  sister 
who  had  come  back  to  her  out  of  those  terrible  wilds  in  the 
far  north  of  Canada. 

Thank  God  this  good  fortune  had  come  in  time  to  help  her. 
Poor,  poor  Elsie,  or  Audrey,  as  she  called  herself  on  the 
stage*  What  terrible  troubles  had  been  hers.  Deserted  by 
the  man  she  loved,  left  alone  with  an  Indian,  and  another 
unfortunate  white  man,  to  make  her  way  back  to  civilization. 
The  thought  of  her  sister's  sufferings  smote  her  tender  young 
heart  even  in  the  midst  of  her  own  rejoicings.  She  had  al- 
ways disliked  and  feared  Indians  hitherto,  but  now,  since 
she  had  listened  to  her  sister's  pitiful  story  of  her  husband's 
leaving  her,  and  of  the  wonderful  loyalty  and  generosity  of 

the  Indian,  Si what  was  his  name?  Ah,  yes,  Si-wash — 

somehow  she  warmed  towards  them.  It  seemed  wonderful  to 
think  of  an  Indian  having  such  generosity  as  to  give  poor 


68  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Elsie  the  money  to  get  to  San  Sabatano  from  Juneau  out 
of  the  payment  he  had  received  in  advance  from  the  journey 
from  Sixty-mile  Creek.  Why,  it  must  have  taken  nearly  all 
he  had. 

Monica  in  her  impulsive  way  felt  that  she  would  like  to 
repay  him,  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  thank  him.  But 
her  sister  had  told  her  that  he  had  gone  back  into  the 
northern  wilderness,  which  nothing  could  ever  induce  him 
to  leave  for  long. 

It  was  a  strange  life  and  tney  were  strange  people.  Even 
her  sister  had  acquired  something  of  the  reticence  and 
somberness  of  the  world  she  had  left  behind  her.  Poor  Elsie. 
She  seemed  to  have  made  such  a  mess  of  her  life.  She  had 
been  doing  so  well,  too,  in  New  York.  Why  had  she  thrown 
it  all  up  to  marry  this  man,  Leo,  and  wander  off  to  the 
Yukon  ?  What  a  funny  name,  Leo.  It  seemed  to  be  his  sur- 
name, too.  Leo ;  it  was  all  right  for  a  first  name,  but — Elsie 
had  insisted  that  it  was  his  name,  and  the  one  she  liked  to 
call  him  by. 

And  now,  here  she  was  fretting  her  poor  heart  out  for  him. 
Oh,  it  was  a  shame.  Men  were  perfect  brutes.  And  to  leave 
her  under  such  conditions,  and  at  such  a  time.  She  blushed 
as  she  thought  what  she  would  feel  if  her  husband  had  left 
her  when  she  was  going  to  have  her  first  baby.  The  thought 
left  her  anxious.  But  even  her  anxiety  for  her  sister  was 
lessened  by  the  knowledge  of  her  own  good  fortune.  She 
remembered  the  nurse,  who  was  even  now  up  in  the  small 
apartments  she  occupied,  and  the  doctor  she  had  engaged. 
A  week  ago  she  had  trembled  at  the  thought  of  how  she  was 
to  pay  these  people,  and  provide  her  sister  with  even  the  bare 
necessities  of  a  confinement.  Now,  now  it  was  different, 
and  a  fresh  wave  of  thankfulness  for  her  good  fortune  flooded 
her  simple  heart. 

Yes,  her  sister  should  have  every  care.  Everything  she 
could  do  to  make  her  happy  and  comfortable  should  be 
done.  And  then,  when  the  baby  came,  wouldn't  it  be  delight- 
ful? She  would  be  its  fairy  god-mother.  She  hoped  he 
would  be  a  boy.  Fancy  Elsie  with  a  son.  Wasn't  it  wonder- 
ful? And  she — she  would  give  him  every  moment  of  her 
spare  time  from  the  office.  Ah,  that  wonderful  thought — 
the  office. 


A    PROMISE  69 

So  her  thoughts  ran  on,  keeping  pace  with  her  feet.  The 
wonders  of  the  new  world  opening  out  before  her  eyes  were 
inexhaustible,  and  long  before  she  was  aware  of  the  distance 
she  had  covered  she  found  herself  at  the  door  of  the  cheap 
little  apartment  house  where  she  lived  on  the  top  floor. 

There  was  no  elevator,  and  she  ran  at  the  stairs,  taking 
them  two  at  a  time.  Her  good  news  would  not  wait.  She 
must  tell  her  poor  sister.  She  was  dying  to  pour  all  the 
happy  story  into  her  ears,  and  watch  the  wistful  smile  grow 
upon  Elsie's  troubled,  handsome  face. 

On  the  sixth  landing  she  stood  breathlessly  fumbling  in 
her  satchel  for  her  key,  when  the  door  opened  and  the  nurse 
appeared  holding  up  a  warning  finger. 

"Come  quietly,"  she  whispered.  "The  doctor  is  with  her 
now.  It  came  on  quite  suddenly.  I  hope  things  will  be  all 
right,  but — she's  in  a  bad  way." 

In  a  moment  all  the  joy  and  hope  died  out  of  Monica's 
tender  heart.  All  the  castles,  all  her  dreams,  fell  into  a 
tumbled  ruin.  Her  sister,  her  beautiful,  brave  sister  was  in 
danger.  She  knew  it.  She  knew  that  the  nurse's  words 
covered  far  »more  than  they  expressed.  Oh,  it  was  cruel, 
cruel. 


CHAPTER    X 

A  PROMISE 

THREE  hopeless  days  since  the  coming  of  that  brief  mo- 
ment of  overwhelming  joy.  The  reaction  had  been  all  too 
terribly  sudden  for  a  young  girl  on  the  threshold  of  life. 
Monica  sat  at  her  dying  sister's  bedside  crushed  under  a 
great  grief. 

Those  terrible  three  days.  The  demands  made  upon  her 
by  the  reporters  of  the  Daily  Citizen.  The  interviews  she 
had  had  to  endure  with  the  ech'tor.  The  letters  she  received. 
Some  from  strangers ;  some  from  acquaintances.  Letters  of 
congratulation ;  letters  full  of  burning  spite  from  some  of 
the  unsuccessful  competitors;  vampire  letters  demanding 
sympathy  and  practical  help,  pouring  out  stories  of  misery, 
sorrow  and  suffering.  All  these,  in  her  simplicity,  she  felt 


70  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

it  her  duty  to  answer;  and  she  must  answer  them  with  smil- 
ing tvords  of  hope  and  comfort.  She  must  at  all  times  keep 
a  smiling  face. 

To  the  reporter  she  had  to  talk  and  laugh  while  her  heart 
was  breaking.  To  the  editor  she  must  offer  her  most  engag- 
ing smile  that  his  personal  goodwill  be  assured  at  the  outset 
of  her  career.  Nor,  for  one  moment,  did  she  permit  a  sign  of 
the  aching  heart  underneath  it  all. 

At  the  end  of  those  three  days  she  was  an  older  woman  by 
far  than  twice  her  seventeen  years.  She  was  learning  from 
the  book  of  life  in  a  manner  that  left  her  almost  despairing. 
How  much  she  learned.  That  smiling  world  she  had  gazed 
upon  as  she  ran  home  with  her  wonderful  news  was  no  longer 
smiling,  its  face  had  resumed  its  wonted  expression  which 
was  careworn,  lined  with  suffering,  and  sorrow,  and  regret; 
and  was  terribly,  terribly  old.  She  had  learned  something 
of  what  her  success  meant.  She  knew  now  that  her  success 
meant  failure  to  hundreds  of  others.  She  knew  that  so  it 
must  always  be.  The  successful  path  must  be  lined  with  a 
tangle  of  weeds  of  suffering  and  hope  abandoned.  For  every 
success  there  must  be,  not  one  but  hundreds  of  failures ;  for 
such  was  the  law  of  Life. 

Thus  she  was  robbed  of  her  joy  and  thrown  back  upon  the 
grief  which  lay  across  her  own  threshold. 

The  verdict  had  been  given  that  morning  by  the  doctor; 
and  corroboration  of  it  was  in  the  steady  eyes  of  the  nurse. 
Her  sister,  her  well-loved,  admired  elder  sister  was  dying. 
She  was  dying  not  as  the  happy  mother  of  a  beautiful  son, 
but  as  the  deserted  wife  left  to  starve  for  all  her  husband 
cared.  She  was  dying  a  broken-hearted  creature  whose  won- 
derful, generous  nature  had  been  made  the  plaything  of  a 
cold,  unscrupulous  villain.  All  this  Monica  told  herself  over 
and  over  again  as  she  sat  beside  the  silent,  uncomplaining 
woman  during  those  long  hours  of  waiting  for  the  end. 

Her  beautiful  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  her  pale  cheeks 
looked  so  wan  with  the  long  hours  of  silent  watching.  The 
nurse  was  still  there  to  do  her  work,  but  most  of  her  work 
was  now  the  care  of  the  little  life  in  the  bed  that  had  been 
put  up  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  rather  than  with  the 
woman  who  had  given  up  her  life  that  her  love  might  yield 
her  absent  man  this  one  last  pledge. 


A    PROMISE  71 

Poor  little  Monica  was  alone,  utterly  alone  with  her  grief. 
There  were  no  warm  words  of  kindly  comfort  to  soften  her 
troubles.  There  was  no  loving  mother's  gentle  hand  to 
soothe  her  aching  head.  The  world  was  there  before  her, 
hard,  unsympathetic.  She  must  face  it  alone,  face  it  with 
what  courage  she  might,  doing  the  best  she  knew  amid  a 
grief  which  seemed  everywhere  about  her. 

An  infantile  cry  from  the  other  bed  startled  her.  She 
rose  and  passed  across  the  room.  The  child  seemed  to  be 
asleep,  for  its  breathing  was  regular,  and  the  cry  was  not 
repeated.  She  gazed  down  upon  its  tiny,  crumpled  face, 
and  her  young  heart  melted  with  a  curious  yearning  and  love 
for  the  little  life  that  was  robbing  her  of  a  sister.  It  was  so 
small.  It  was  so  tender — and — and  it  had  cost  so  much. 
She  longed  to  take  it  in  her  arms  and  press  it  to  her  girlish 
bosom.  She  loved  it.  Loved  it  because  it  was  her  sister's 
and  soon  would  be  all  she  had  in  the  world  to  remind  her  of 
the  generous  heart  from  which  life  was  so  swiftly  ebbing. 

"Monica!" 

The  girl  started  and  looked  round.  The  dying  woman's 
eyes  were  wide  open. 

"Come  here."  The  voice  was  low,  but  the  words  were 
quite  distinct.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  for  more 
than  twelve  hours. 

Monica  passed  swiftly  back  to  her  place  at  the  bedside. 

"Oh,  Elsie,  Elsie,"  she  cried,  "I'm  so  glad  you  have  spoken. 
So,  so  glad." 

A  faint  smile  flickered  gently  oVer  the  sick  woman's  emaci- 
ated features. 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes,  yes.  Oh,  Elsie,  you  feel  better,  stronger,  don't  you  ? 
Say  you  feel  better.  I — I  know  you  do." 

Monica's  last  words  came  hesitatingly,  for  even  while  she 
was  speaking  a  negative  movement  from  the  sick  woman  told 
her  how  vain  were  her  hopes. 

"It  is  no  use,  Mon.  But  I'm  perfectly  easy — now.  That's 
why  I  called  you.  I  want  to  talk  about — him.  You — you — 
love  my  little  son,  don't  you?"  There  was  pleading  in  the 
voice  as  the  woman  asked  the  question.  "I  saw  you  bending 
over  him  just  now,  and — and  I  thought — hoped  you  did." 

"Oh,  Elsie,  he  is  yours.    How  could  I  help  but  love  him?" 


72  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  words  came  impulsively,  and  Monica  dropped  a  warm 
hand  upon  the  transparent  flesh  of  her  sister's.  Her  action 
was  promptly  rewarded  by  a  feeble  pressure  of  acknowledg- 
ment. 

"I — I  knew  you  would." 

After  that  neither  spoke  for  some  moments.  Tears  were 
softly  falling  down  Monica's  pretty  cheeks.  But  her  sister's 
eyes  were  closed  again.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  were  gather- 
ing her  strength  and  thoughts  for  a  final  effort. 

Presently  Monica  grew  alarmed.  She  dashed  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  and  bent  over  the  bed. 

"Shall  I  fetch  nurse?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  she 
asked  eagerly. 

The  big  eyes  opened  at  once,  and  the  light  in  them  was 
a  calm  smile.  The  dying  woman  looked  almost  happy.  To 
Monica's  growing  understanding  of  such  things  her  happi- 
ness might  have  been  the  inspiration  of  one  who  sees  beyond 
the  narrow  focus  of  human  life;  whose  swiftly  approaching 
end  had  revealed  to  her  tired  eyes  a  glimpse  of  the  wonder- 
ful world  she  was  approaching,  that  golden  life  awaiting  all, 
be  they  saint  or  sinner. 

"I  don't  want  any  one  but  you,  dear — now."  The  voice 
was  tired,  but  a  sense  of  peace  was  conveyed  in  the  gentle 
pressure  of  her  thin  fingers  upon  the  soft"  warm  flesh  of  her 
sister's  hand.  "I — I  want  to  tell  you  of — things.  And — 
and  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something.  Oh,  Mon,  as  you 
love  me,  as  you  love  my  boy,  I  want  you  to  give  me  your 
promise." 

Monica  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  tearfully 
gave  her  promise  with  all  the  impulsiveness  which  her  love 
inspired. 

"You  only  have  to  tell  me  what  it  is.  I  could  promise  you 
anything,  Elsie.  I  have  only  one  desire  in  the  world  now; 
it  is  to — to  help  you." 

Her  sister's  eyes  closed  for  a  moment.  Then  they  opened 
again. 

"Raise  me  up  a  little,  dear.  Put  a  pillow  behind  my  shoul- 
ders. I  want  to — to — see  the  bed  over  there.  I  want  to  see 
my  little  son,  his — his  boy.  That's  better."  She  sighed  con- 
tentedly as  Monica  raised  her  up,  and  her  big  eyes  at  once 
fixed  themselves  upon  the  other  bed.  [There  was  nothing  to 


A    PROMISE  73 

be  seen  but  the  carefully  arranged  bed  clothes,  but,  for  the 
time  at  least,  it  was  sufficient. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  the  thing's  I  never  told  you  before.  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  Leo;  and  I  want  to  talk  about  my — 
my  boy.  Leo  and  I  were  not  married." 

A  little  gasp  of  horrified  dismay  escaped  the  young  girl. 
She  was  so  young  that  as  yet  her  ideals  of  life  were  still 
intact.  The  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  her  sister  now  spoke 
of  had  never  entered  her  innocent  head. 

"Ah,  that — that  hurts  you,"  the  other  went  on.  "I  knew 
it  would.  I — I — that's  why  I  lied  to  you  before.  I  lied 
when  I  said  Leo  was  my  husband.  Oh,  Mon,  don't  let  it  make 
any  difference  to  us  now.  The  time  is  getting  so  short." 

"Nothing  could  ever  make  any  difference  between  us," 
Monica  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  was  startled.  You  see " 

"I  know.  Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear,  you  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  love  as  I  love.  I  met  Leo  a  long  time  ago>,  when  I  was 
an  actress.  He  knew  me  as  Audrey  Thorne,  an  actress,  and 
I — I  wanted  to  marry  him.  But — you  see  he  had  nothing 
on  which  to  keep  a  wife — an  extravagant  woman  as  I  was 
then.  So,  he  went  away,  and — and  I  followed  him.  You 
must  think  me  utterly,  terribly  bad — but  I  loved  him.  I  fol- 
lowed him  right  up  into  the  wilds  of  the  Yukon,  and — and 
I  lived  with  him." 

"Poor,  poor  Elsie."  Monica's  dismay  had  passed,  and 
she  gently  squeezed  the  hand  she  was  still  holding.  The 
pressure  seemed  to  give  the  other  courage  to  proceed. 

"You  mustn't  pity  me  too  much.  I — I  was  very  happy. 
I  was  very  happy  until  I  knew  about — my  little  son.  It 
was  then  that  I  realized  the  awful  sin  I  had  committed.  It 
was  then  I  knew  the  cruel  wrong  I  had  done  to  that  unborn 
life.  I — I  think  I  was  nearly  distracted  when  it  all  came 
upon  me."  Her  voice  had  risen.  It  was  almost  strident 
with  emotion.  "For  weeks  I  thought  and  thought  what  I 
could  do  to  remedy  my  wrong,  and  at  last  I  took  my  courage 
in  both  hands.  I  told  Leo,  and — and  asked  him  to  marry 
me — for  the  child's  sake." 

"For  the  child's  sake?" 

The  admission  which  the  words  implied  filled  the  simple 
Monica  with  something  like  panic. 

"You  see,  Leo  never  loved  me  as  I  loved  him," 


74  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Oh,  Elsie,  Elsie!" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  forced  myself  upon  him." 

The  tragedy  of  her  sister's  life  had  almost  overwhelmed 
the  girl.  The  whole  pitiful  story  wrung  her  heart  with  its 
pathos,  its  shame.  Her  sister.  Her  beautiful,  clever  sister. 
Oh,  it  was  too,  too  dreadful. 

After  a  while  Elsie  roused  herself  again.  There  was  a 
lot  yet  to  be  said,  and  she  knew  her  time  was  short. 

"I  am  all  to  blame.  You  mustn't  blame  Leo,"  she  said 
earnestly.  "He  was  a  good  man  to  me.  I  know  you  think 
he  has  deserted  me.  But  he  hasn't.  That  is  not  him.  He 
promised  to  marry  me,  and,  had  I  lived,  he  would  have  kept 
that  promise.  We  were  coming  down  country  for  that  pur- 
pose." She  paused.  "Then  something  happened  which  made 
it  necessary  for  him  to  go  on  ahead.  That's  how  I  came  to 
make  the  journey  with  the  Indian.  It — it  couldn't  be  helped. 
You — you  mustn't  blame  Leo.  He  will  be  looking  for  me. 
Is  very  likely  looking  for  me  now.  But  it  is  too  late.  That 
is  why  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something." 

Monica  waited.  She  could  find  nothing  to  say.  She  was 
learning  another  of  the  bitter  lessons  which  life  has  to  teach 
when  the  book  is  once  opened.  Presently  the  other  went 
on — 

"You  see,  neither  of  us  can  now  remedy  the  wrong  I  have 
done  my  little  son.  As  I  said,  it  is  too  late.  I  shall  be  gone 
before  Leo  can  marry  me."  The  big  eyes  became  eager. 
They  looked  up  with  piteous  straining  into  the  gentle  face 
before  them.  "Do  you  see?  Oh,  Mon,  do  you  understand? 
My  boy — our  boy  has  no  father;  and  very,  very  soon  will 
have  no  mother.  Oh,  Mon,  what  can  I  do,  what  can  I  say? 
Can — can  you  help  me?" 

But  Monica  was  gazing  helplessly  before  her.  The 
warmth  of  her  love  for  her  erring  sister  was  no  less.  But 
she  was  thinking,  thinking,  striving  with  all  her  might  to 
seek  a  solution  to  the  painful  tangle  of  her  poor  sister's 
life. 

"I — I — can't Tell  me,  Elsie — tell  me  anything  I  can 

do  for  him.  I  don't  seem  able  to  think  for  myself,"  she  cried 
hopelessly  at  last. 

Something  of  Monica's  difficulty  seemed  to  communicate 
itself  to  the  other.  Her  brows  drew  together  in  perplexity. 


A    PROMISE  75 

"It  is  so  hard,"  she  said  suddenly.  "I  have  thought  and 
thought,  and  I  can  only  see  one  possible  hope — only  one. 
That  hope  is — you." 

"How?    Oh,  Elsie,  tell  me  how.    What  can  I  do?" 

With  a  sudden  effort  the  mother  propped  herself  up  with 
her  elbows  behind  her.  Her  dying  eyes  were  burning  bright 
with  feverish  light.  All  the  hope  of  her  poor  dying  soul 
looked  up  into  her  sister's  face  as  her  final  appeal  rushed  to 
her  lips. 

"How?  Why,  why,  by  taking  him  as  your  own  son. 
How?  Oh,  Mon,  his  own  mother  is  taken  from  him. 
Then  give  him  another.  Make  him  your  own  child — whose 
father  is  dead.  It  would  be  easy  for  you.  You  married 
young,  and  your — your  husband  died — died  at  sea.  He  will 
never  know  differently.  No  one  will  question  it.  Oh,  my 
dear,  don't  you  see?  Bring  him  up  as  your  own  child,  born 
in  wedlock,  and  never  let  him  know  his  "mother's  shame. 
Promise  me,  your  sacred  promise  to  a  dying  woman,  that  he 
shall  never  know,  through  you,  his  mother's  shame,  and  his 
own  disgrace.  Promise  it  to  me,  Mon,  it  is  the  only  thing  that 
can  give  me  peace  now.  Forget  everything  I  have  told  you. 
Forget  the  disgrace  I  have  brought  on  you.  Forget 
everything  except — except  only  your  promise.  Promise! 
Promise !" 

Her  fingers  tightened  almost  painfully  upon  Monica's 
hand.  She  was  laboring  under  a  fierce  emotion,  almost  suf- 
ficient to  bring  on  a  collapse.  The  feverish  eyes  were  blood- 
shot, and  a  hectic  flush  burned  on  her  thin  cheeks. 

The  impulse  of  the  moment  was  upon  Monica,  and  she 
leaned  forward.  Her  other  hand  was  tenderly  raised  to  the 
woman's  moist  brow,  in  a  loving,  soothing  manner. 

"I  promise,  dear ;  I  promise  on  my  sacred  word  that  what 
you  ask  me  shall  be  done.  Henceforth  he  shall  be  my  son. 
Nor  shall  he  ever  know  through  me  the  cruel  wrong  the 
world  has  done  to  you.  I  promise  you,  Elsie,  dear,  freely, 
freely.  And  all  my  life  I  will  strive  to  keep  the  real  truth  of 
his  birth  from  him." 

"Thank  God!" 

The  reaction  was  terrible.  The  dying  woman  fell  back 
on  her  pillows,  and  her  features  suddenly  became  so  ghastly 
that  Monica  sprang  from  her  seat  in  wild  alarm.  She  ran 


76  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

to  the  door  to  summon  the  nurse.  But  the  voice  from  the 
bed  stayed  her. 

"No,  Mon,  not  yet."  Then  the  dying  woman  added  with 
an  irresistible  appeal,  "Give  me  my  boy,  for — for  a  few 
minutes.  After  that 

Monica  ran  to  obey  with  an  only  too  thankful  heart.  But 
her  instinct  warned  her  that  the  end  was  not  far  off.  She 
laid  the  sleeping  child  tenderly  by  its  mother's  side,  and 
placed  her  thin  arm  gently  under  its  shoulders.  She  felt 
maybe  she  was  doing  wrong,  but — poor  Elsie. 

Elsie's  eyes  thanked  her,  but  her  voice  remained  silent. 
And  for  a  long  while  there  was  an  unbroken  quiet  in  the 
room. 

Monica  moved  to  the  window  and  stood  with  her  back 
turned  to  the  bed.  Somehow  she  felt  that  these  moments 
were  too  sacred  for  another's  eyes  to  witness.  Slowly  fresh 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  tears  of  sympathy  and  love,  and 
one  by  one  they  rolled  unheeded,  slowly  down  her  cheeks. 
And  as  they  fell  the  last  moments  of  her  sister's  life  ebbed 
peacefully  away. 


CHAPTER    XI 

TWO   STRANGERS  IN   SAN  SABATANO 

MONICA'S  life  suddenly  became  filled  to  overflowing.  She 
was  no  longer  a  child,  but  a  woman  of  a  maturity  that  was 
almost  absurd  in  one  so  young.  The  happy,  irresponsible 
girlhood  she  had  so  long  enjoyed  in  her  mother's  modest 
uptown  apartment  had  quite  gone.  Whatever  the  future 
might  hold  of  happiness  for  her,  certainly  freedom  from  the 
more  serious  cares  of  life  would  never  again  be  hers. 

Five  years  ago  she  and  her  mother  had  bade  Elsie  good-bye 
in  the  same  humble  apartment,  when  the  elder  girl  had  left 
San  Sabatano  to  go  on  the  stage  in  New  York.  Monica  was 
twelve  then.  Twelve;  and  her  young  eyes  and  younger  mind 
were  filled  with  a  boundless  envy  and  admiration  for  the  beau- 
tiful sister  who  was  to  bask  in  the  wonderful  limelight  of 
the  stage,  and  wear  clothes  far  beyond  the  beauty  of  all 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   77 

dreams;  and  jewels — jewels,  whose  splendor  was  incompara- 
ble to  the  beauty  of  her  lovely,  lovely  Elsie.  Had  she  only 
known  it  she  was  very  near  the  truth  when  she  thought  of 
the  jewels  her  sister  would  wear. 

Her  mother  was  one  of  those  quietly  good  women  who 
contrive  to  inspire  their  children  with  something  of  their 
own  qualities  by  example  rather  than  precept.  Neither  Elsie 
nor  Monica  ever  knew  what  it  was  to  receive  one  of  those 
harsh  reprimands  so  common  among  mothers  of  less  under- 
standing, of  less  ability.  Her  children  must  grow  up  guided 
rather  than  driven.  All  their  lives  this  had  been  her  method. 
Therefore  it  came  as  a  terrible  shock  to  her  when  the  more 
wayward  of  the  two,  perhaps,  in  a  sense,  the  bolder  spirit 
of  the  two,  suddenly  announced  her  intention  of  leaving  the 
sheltering  dovecote,  where  money  was  never  very  plentiful, 
to  earn  her  living  in  the  flamboyant  world  of  the  stage. 

True  to  her  methods,  and  with,  perhaps,  a  deeper  under- 
standing of  her  child,  and  the  uselessness  of  refusal,  the 
mother's  permission  was  not  long  withheld.  It  was  a  reluc- 
tant enough  permission,  but  given  without  any  outward  sign 
of  the  disapproval  she  really  felt.  Moreover,  she  was  con- 
vinced of  the  rightness  of  her  attitude.  The  girl,  she  knew, 
would  live  her  life  as  she  understood  it.  Her  only  duty  re- 
maining, therefore,  was  to  equip  her  with  all  the  knowledge 
of  the  world  that  lay  within  her  simple  range  of  understand- 
ing. For  the  rest  the  child's  fate  was  in  the  lap  of  the  gods. 

But  she  never  seemed  to  quite  get  over  the  parting.  For 
a  long  time  she  bore  up  with  great  fortitude,  and  her  devo- 
tion to  Monica  became  a  wonderful  thing.  It  was  almost 
as  if  she  feared  that  she,  too,  her  one  remaining  child,  might 
be  taken  from  her,  and  swallowed  up  by  the  hungry  maw 
of  the  outside  world. 

She  heard  regularly  from  Elsie  for  some  time.  Elsie  was 
getting  on  quite  well.  Then  letters  became  less  frequent. 
And,  finally,  about  the  time  that  Elsie  met  Leo,  they  ceased 
altogether.  It  was  then  that  the  signs  of  break-up  began  to 
show  in  the  patient  woman  at  home. 

She  had  died  quietly  and  quickly  of  heart  failure  just  a 
year  ago.  Monica's  grief  was  profound.  But  she  was  too 
young  for  any  lasting  effect  to  remain  with  her.  She  lived 
on  in  the  apartment  without  any  thought  of  leaving  it.  The 


78  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

whole  thing  seemed  the  most  natural  In  the  world  to  her. 
Her  mother's  solicitor  wrote  her,  and  offered  her  a  home 
with  his  family,  but,  with  prompt  decision,  she  refused  it. 
She  told  him  that  if  her  mother's  affairs  permitted  it,  she 
would  rather  remain  in  San  Sabatano,  where  she  had  all  her 
girlhood's  friends,  than  break  new  ground  among  strangers. 
Her  mother's  affairs  yielded  her  the  barest  living,  so  she 
remained,  determined  to  make  a  way  for  herself  in  the  world, 
her  own  world,  as  other  girls  of  her  acquaintance  had  done. 

Now  she  had  reached  the  second,  and,  in  many  ways,  the 
greater  change  in  her  life.  Where,  before,  only  her  childish 
affections  had  been  bruised  and  crushed  at  her  mother's  death, 
now  she  realized  that  she  had  all  too  suddenly  passed  from 
the  sunlit  paths  of  innocent  childhood,  to  the  harsher  road 
down  which  all  the  world  was  journeying;  struggling, 
jostling,  each  striving  to  seize  for  themselves  the  easier,  the 
pleasanter  paths  along  which  to  make  the  journey  of  life. 

But  the  change  in  her  was  subtle.  There  was  no  outward 
effect,  there  was  no  disturbing  of  the  wholesome,  happy 
nature  that  was  the  very  essence  of  her  being.  The  change 
was  in  an  added  knowledge,  a  quickening  of  naturally  alert 
faculties.  She  realized  that  some  strange  force  had  suddenly 
plunged  her  into  the  midst  of  a  life  which  demanded  quick 
thought  and  swift  action,  so  that  her  pulses  might  be  kept 
beating  in  perfect  time  to  the  pace  at  which  life  sped  on  about 
her. 

She  realized  that  she  had  suddenly  become  one  of  life's 
workers,  and  that  grave  responsibility  was  already  knocking 
at  her  door.  From  the  very  beginning  she  accepted  the 
new  conditions  gladly.  She  felt  an  added  zest  to  the  fact  of 
living.  The  old  days  of  dreaming  were  gone.  Every  mo- 
ment of  her  waking  hours  was  filled  with  thought,  keen, 
practical  thought;  and  the  demand  thus  made  on  her  found 
her  ready  and  able.  There  was  no  fluster,  no  confusion  of 
any  sort.  Her  healthy  brain  was  quick  and  incisive,  charac- 
teristics quite  unsuspected  even  by  herself.  Not  only  was 
this  so,  but,  with  the  added  pressure,  there  came  a  quiet 
desire  to  test  her  newly  discovered  powers  to  the  uttermost. 

There  were  other  changes,  too,  changes  of  almost  equal 
importance.  She  found  herself  witnessing  the  progress  of 
affairs  about  her  with  an  entirely  new  understanding  of  them. 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   79 

All  her  understanding  of  the  precepts  of  her  youth  received 
revision ;  a  revision  which  was  inspired  by  the  story  her  sister 
had  told  her  on  her  deathbed.  The  shock  at  first  had  been 
a  little  overwhelming,  but,  young  as  she  was,  her  ready  brain 
quickly  assimilated  the  facts,  and  set  itself  to  the  task  of 
readjusting  its  focus. 

There  was  no  bitterness,  no  horror  at  her  discoveries.  She 
simply  realized  that  here  was  a  small  slice  of  life  cut  out 
by  the  same  ruthless  knife  which  no  doubt  served  hundreds 
of  similar  purposes  among  the  rest  of  mankind.  Who 
was  she  to  criticize,  who  was  she  to  condemn?  Her  knowl- 
edge was  all  to  come,  and  maybe,  as  she  went  on,  she  would 
discover  that  such  tragedies  were  part  of  the  real  life  which 
up  to  now  had  been  entirely  hidden  from  her. 

She  had  no  blame  for  her  dead  sister.  Her  memory  was 
as  sacred  to  her  as  if  she  had  lived  the  most  perfect  life  of 
purity  under  the  social  laws  governing  man's  relationship 
to  woman.  Her  love  once  given  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
promptly  rescinded  by  the  failure  of  its  idol.  The  idol  might 
fall,  and  become  besmirched  in  the  unsuspected  mire,  but  her 
frank,  kindly  hands  were  ready  to  set  it  up  again  and  again, 
and  perhaps  in  time  her  broader  knowledge  would  teach  her 
how  to  secure  it  from  further  disaster. 

Perhaps  the  first  real  warning  of  the  change  in  her  came  at 
the  moment  she  considered  her  sister's  funeral.  Here  un- 
doubtedly a  shock  was  awaiting  her,  and,  in  a  moment,  there 
leaped  into  her  focus  a  teeming  picture  of  almost  endless 
complications.  Just  for  an  instant  all  her  nerves  were  set 
jangling,  and  an  utter  helplessness  left  her  painfully  dis- 
tressed. Then  the  feeling  as  abruptly  passed,  her  mind 
cleared,  and,  one  by  one,  she  found  herself  reviewing  each 
detail  of  the  situation,  and  marking  out  the  course  she  must 
adopt. 

First  and  foremost  her  sacred  promise  to  the  dying  woman 
stood  out  in  all  its  nakedness,  entirely  robbed  of  its  cloak  of 
impulse  and  affection,  in  which  it  had  been  clad  at  the  time 
of  its  making.  And  from  that  promise,  radiating  in  every 
direction,  she  saw  boundless  possibilities  for  more  than 
unpleasant  consequences. 

She  knew  she  must  make  up  her  mind  swiftly,  and  she  did 
so  in  an  astonishing  manner.  A  sleepless  night  found  her 


80  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

in  the  morning  ready  with  her  plans  all  clear  in  her  mind. 
She  still  had  nearly  three  weeks  before  taking  up  her  new 
position  in  the  office  of  the  Daily  Citizen.  This  would  be 
ample  time  to  put  everything  in  order.  It  was  necessary 
to  take  the  doctor  into  her  confidence.  He  had  been  their 
doctor  for  as  long  as  she  could  remember.  He  had  attended 
her  mother  in  her  last  illness,  and  knew  their  whole  family 
history  as  well  as  she  knew  it  herself.  Therefore  she  did 
not  anticipate  any  difficulty  with  him. 

So  the  third  morning  after  her  sister's  death  she  visited 
him  at  his  house,  and  confided  sufficient  of  her  sister's  story 
to  him  to  enlist  his  sympathy,  without  any  breach  of  the 
confidence  reposed  in  her.  She  pointed  out  her  own  position, 
and  begged  his  help  in  hushing  the  whole  matter  up. 

Dr.  Bernard  Strong  was  a  man  of  wide  sympathy  and 
understanding,  and  in  giving  his  promise  of  help,  pointed  out 
the  gravity  of  the  position  which  her  quixotic  .promise  had 
placed  her  in. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "this  is  almost  a  terrible  business  for 
you.  Here  you  are,  bound  to  this  town  for  at  least  a  year, 
with  a  newly  born  infant  in  your  care,  which  you  cannot 
explain  away,  without  breaking  your  promise  to  poor  Elsie. 
You  are  known.  You  have  many  friends.  What  in  the 
world  are  you  going  to  do?" 

It  was  then  that  Monica  dispayed  the  quick,  incisive 
working  of  her  suddenly  aroused  mental  faculties.  She  told 
him  in  brief,  pointed  words  the  plans  she  had  made  during 
the  long,  wakeful  night. 

"It  does  not  seem  so — so  very  difficult,"  she  said. 

Then  she  plunged  into  the  details  of  her  schemes.  She 
pointed  out  that  her  tenement  was  a  weekly  one,  which  she 
could  get  rid  of  as  soon  as  Elsie  was  buried.  This  she  would 
do.  Then  she  would  take  rooms  far  out  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town.  She  would  first  find  a  house  for  the  baby  in  the 
country,  a  few  miles  out,  where  he  was  not  likely  to  be 
brought  into  contact  with  the  townsfolk.  That  would  be  a 
start.  After  that  she  would  meet  any  emergency  as  it  arose. 
The  help  she  wanted  from  him  was  to  arrange  the  funeral, 
with  all  the  secrecy  possible,  and  see  that  the  law  was  com- 
plied with  in  regard  to  the  baby.  His  registration,  etc. 

The  quick  practical  manner  in  which  she  detailed  all  the 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   81 

minor  details  to  this  man  of  experience  filled  him  with  a 
profound  admiration,  and  he  told  her  so. 

"It  is  astounding  to  me,  Monica,"  he  said  kindly,  "that 
you,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  can  handle  such  a  matter  in  the 
calm  manner  you  are  doing.  Perfectly  astounding.  You 
certainly  ought  to  do  well  in  this  business  career  you  are 
about  to  begin.  Really  you  have  made  things  seem  less — er — 
formidable.  But,  my  dear  child,  I  feel  I  must  warn  you. 
You  see,  I  am  so  much  older,"  he  went  on,  with  a  smile. 
"I  have  seen  so  much  of  the  world — the  sadder  side  of  the 
world,  that  I  cannot  let  this  moment  pass  without  telling  you 
of  the  rocks  I  can  see  ahead,  waiting  to  break  up  your  little 
boat.  Your  tale  of  an  early  marriage  and  all  that,  if  the 
boy  becomes  associated  with  you  in  the  minds  of  people  in 
the  town,  will  never  do.  At  once  they  will  think  the  worst, 
and  then — what  of  your  position  on  the  Daily  Citizen?  Then 
when  the  time  comes  for  you  to  marry?  What  then?" 

"I  shall  never  marry — now,"  was  Monica's  prompt  and 
decided  reply. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  so  easy  to  say  that.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  you  have 
tied  a  millstone  about  your  neck  that  will  take  your  utmost 
strength  to  bear.  I  even  doubt  if  you  will  be  able  to  bear 
it  for  long.  You  are  about  to  embark  on  a  career  of  false- 
hood which  will  find  you  out  at  almost  every  turn.  It  is 
quite  terrible  to  think  of.  Poor  Elsie  did  you  the  greatest 
wrong,  the  greatest  injury,  when  she  extracted  that  promise 
from  you.  And,"  he  added,  with  a  wry  smile,  "I  fear,  from 
my  knowledge  of  you,  you  will  carry  it  out  to  the  bitter  end — 
until  it  utterly  overwhelms  you." 

Monica  stepped  off  the  veranda  of  the  doctor's  house  with 
none  of  the  lightness  of  gait  with  which  she  had  mounted  it. 
She  realized  the  gravity  of  her  position  to  the  full  now,  and 
knew  that,  without  breaking  her  sacred  word  to  a  dying 
woman,  there  was  no  means  of  remedying  it.  But  she  was 
quite  determined,  and  walked  away  with  her  pretty  lips 
tightly  compressed,  her  blue  eyes  gazing  out  unflinchingly 
before  her.  Nothing  should  turn  her  from  her  purpose. 
It  was  Elsie's  trust  to  her.  It  was  the  cross  she  had  to  bear. 
Come  what  might  she  would  bear  it  to  the  end,  even  if  at  the 
last  its  weight  were  to  crush  the  very  life  out  of  her. 


82  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  next  three  weeks  passed  rapidly.  Monica  had  no 
time  to  look  back  upon  the  trouble  which  had  so  involved 
her,  she  had  little  enough  time  to  gaze  ahead  into  the  wide 
vista  of  troublous  rocks  the  doctor  had  promised  her.  In 
fact  she  had  no  time  at  all  for  anything  but  the  crowding 
emergencies  of  the  moment,  and  keeping  the  well-meaning 
friends  and  curious  neighbors  as  far  from  the  secrets  of  her 
inner  life  as  possible. 

Nor  was  it  easy ;  and  without  Dr.  Strong's  help  many  of 
her  difficulties  would  have  been  well-nigh  insurmountable. 
But  he  was  as  good,  and  even  better,  than  his  word.  The 
whole  of  the  funeral  was  achieved  without  any  unnecessary 
publicity,  and  Monica  and  the  doctor  were  the  only  mourners. 
Then  the  latter  found  a  home  for  the  boy  on  a  farm,  three 
miles  out  of  the  town,  where  a  newly  born  babe  had  just  died, 
and  so,  in  the  end,  everything  was  accomplished  just  as 
Monica  had  planned,  without  one  unnecessary  question  being 
asked.  Thus,  by  the  time  the  winner  of  the  special  prize 
took  up  her  duties  in  the  office  of  the  Daily  Citizen.,  of  all 
San  Sabatano  Dr.  Strong  alone  shared  Monica  Hanson's 
secret.  A  secret,  it  was  her  future  object  in  life  to  keep  en- 
tirely hidden  from  the  world. 

Monica  entered  upon  her  duties  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
she  had  known  for  weeks.  Everything  was  as  she  could 
wish  it.  All  traces  of  her  sister's  shame  had  been  carefully 
covered.  Practically  no  sign  was  left  to  delight  the  prying 
eyes  of  the  curious  scandalmongers.  Her  future  lay  before 
her,  wide,  and,  to  her,  illimitable. 

Her  aims  and  ambitions  were  fixed  plainly  in  her  mind. 
She  must  succeed;  she  must  rise  in  the  commercial  world; 
she  must  make  money.  These  things  were  not  for  herself. 
No,  she  required  so  little.  They  were  for  him,  for  the  little 
life  so  cruelly  wronged  at  its  very  outset.  Henceforth  her 
own  life  would  be  devoted  to  his.  Her  whole  thought  would 
be  for  him  and  his  welfare,  not  only  for  the  child's  sake,  but 
in  memory  of  the  love  she  had  borne  her  dead  sister. 

How  well  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Citizen  had  judged  the 
competitors  for  the  special  prize  was  quickly  demonstrated. 
Monica's  zeal  was  backed  by  the  suddenly  aroused  acuteness 
of  an  unusually  clever  brain,  and,  before  a  month  had  passed, 
the  complacent  individual  in  the  editorial  chair  had  excellent 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   83 

reason  for  again  congratulating  himself.  He  had  intended 
from  the  outset  that  the  winner  of  the  princely  prize  and 
unusual  salary  should  earn  every  cent  of  it,  but  he  found 
in  his  new  clerk  an  insatiable  hunger  for  work,  and  a  capacity 
for  simple  organization  quite  astounding,  and  far  beyond 
any  demand  he  could  make  on  it. 

In  this  beginner  he  quickly  detected  a  highly  developed 
germ  of  commercial  instinct;  that  germ  so  coveted,  so  rare. 
He  tried  her  in  many  ways,  seeking  in  a  more  or  less  fumbling 
way  for  the  direction  in  which  her  abilities  most  surely 
pointed.  Stenography  and  typing,  he  quickly  saw,  were 
mere  incidents  to  her.  She  had  other  and  larger  abilities. 
Frequently  in  dictating  letters  he  found  himself  discussing 
matters  pertaining  to  them  with  her,  and  she  never  failed  to 
center  her  mental  eye  upon  the  point  at  issue,  driving 
straight  to  the  heart  of  the  matter  in  hand.  The  man  was 
frankly  delighted  with  her,  and,  in  the  shortest  possible  time, 
she  became  a  sort  of  confidential  secretary,  whose  views  on 
the  organization  of  his  paper  were  often  more  than  useful 
to  him. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  editor's  sanctum  was  in- 
vaded by  a  stranger;  a  big  stranger  of  quite  uncommon  ap- 
pearance. The  man  was  simply  dressed  in  good  store  clothes, 
which  covered  a  powerful,  burly  figure.  But  the  chief  interest 
lay  in  the  man's  face  and  head.  It  was  a  strong  face.  To 
use  Mr.  Meakin's  own  description  of  him  to  his  young  clerk 
some  time  later,  he  possessed  a  "tow  head  and  a  face  like 
emery  cloth." 

He  gave  no  name,  in  fact  he  refused  his  name.  He  came 
to  insert  an  advertisement  in  the  paper,  and  to  consult  the 
editor  upon  the  matter. 

His  objects  were  so  definite  that,  in  spite  of  the  refusal 
to  give  his  name,  Mr.  Meakin  decided  to  see  him.  Monica 
was  away  at  dinner,  or  he  would  probably  have  turned  him 
over  to  her.  However,  when  the  man  finally  appeared  the 
editorial  mind  was  pleased  at  the  study  his  unusual 
personality  offered  him. 

The  stranger  very  nearly  filled  up  the  doorway  as  lie 
entered  the  inner  office. 

"Guess  you're  the  editor?"  he  began  at  once,  dropping  into 
the  chair  Mr.  Meakin  kicked  towards  him. 


84  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Sure,"  Mr.  Meakin  was  always  sparing  of  words  to 
strangers. 

"Ah." 

Then,  so  long  did  the  man  remain  silent  that  the  editor 
found  it  necessary  to  spur  him  on  by  a  method  he  usually 
adopted  in  such  cases.  He  pressed  the  button  of  his  dummy 
telephone  with  his  foot.  The  bell  rang  out,  and  he  lifted  the 
receiver  to  his  ear. 

"Hullo!  Who  is  it?  Oh,  that  you,  Allards?  Oh,  is  it 
important?  Well,  I'm  engaged  just  now.  I  shan't  be  three 
minutes.  Yes,  I'll  come  right  along  then.  Goo'-bye !" 

He  looked  across  at  his  visitor  as  he  put  the  receiver  up. 

"Sorry  to  interrupt  you.  I  didn't  just  get  what  you 
said." 

A  flicker  of  a  smile  passed  across  the  visitor's  serious  face. 

"It's  of  no  consequence,"  he  said.  "Guess  I  must  have 
been  thinking  aloud.  You  see  it's  kind  of  a  fool  trick  having 
the  button  of  that  dummy  'phone  in  sight  under  the  table. 
Guess  the  feller  who  fixed  it  was  a  'mutt.' ' 

"Eh?"  Mr.  Meakin's  face  went  suddenly  scarlet.  He 
was  about  to  make  a  hasty  reply,  but  changed  his  mind,  and 
laughed  with  a  belated  sense  of  humor. 

"It's  served  its  purpose  anyhow,"  he  said  genially.  "What 
can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  stranger  responded  to  his  humor  at  once. 

"Don't  guess  you  can  do  much.  Maybe  you  can  tell  me 
a  deal.  I'm  looking  for  some  one  whose  lately  come  to  this 
city.  A  lady.  Maybe  you  get  a  list  of  visitors  to  this  city 
in  your  paper." 

"At  the  hotels— yes." 

"Ah,  I  don't  guess  she's  stopping  at  an  hotel.  Came  to 
visit  her  sister.  Her  name's  Audrey  Thorne." 

"Audrey  Thorne,"  Mr.  Meakin  searched  the  back  cells  of 
memory.  He  seemed  to  have  heard  the  name  at  some  time 
or  other,  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  recall  where. 

"Guess  I'm  not  wise,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  thoughtful 
shake  of  his  head,  while  he  eyed  his  visitor  shrewdly.  "Any- 
way, if  I  knew  of  the  lady,  tain't  up  to  me  to  hand  informa- 
tion to  a  stranger — without;  a  name." 

The  stranger  promptly  rose  from  his  seat. 

"Just  so,"  he  said,  with  a  sharp  clip  of  his  powerful  jaws. 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   85 

"I'll  ask  you  to  read  this  over,"  he  went  on,  producing  a 
sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  "and  say  what  it'll  cost  to 
have  it  in  your  news-sheet  for  a  week." 

He  handed  the  paper  across  the  desk,  and  Mr.  Meakin 
admired  the  bold  handwriting  in  which  the  advertisement 
was  set  out. 

"  'Will  Audie  send  her  address  to  Box  4926  P.  O.  Win- 
nipeg? Sign  letter  in  full  name. — Leo.' ' 

Mr.  Meakin  read  it  over  twice.    Then  he  looked  up  keenly. 

"Guess  it'll  cost  you  ten  dollars,"  he  said.  "Sunday  edition 
two  dollars  extra.  In  advance." 

The  stranger  paid  out  the  money  without  comment  and 
moved  towards  the  door.  Then  he  looked  back. 

"There'll  be  no  mistake.  It's  particular,"  he  said 
deliberately. 

"There'll  be  no  mistake." 

"Thanks."  The  stranger  pocketed  the  receipt  for  the 
money  with  some  care. 

The  door  closed  behind  the  man  who  signed  himself  as 
"Leo,"  and  Mr.  Meakin  heard  him  pass  down  the  passage  to 
the  outer  office.  Then  he  turned  to  the  stack  of  local  copy 
at  his  elbow. 

He  was  quite  used  to  strange  visits  from  stranger  people, 
so  he  thought  no  more  of  the  matter  until  nearly  an  hour 
later  when  Monica  returned  from  her  dinner. 

As  she  entered  the  wholesome,  airy  apartment,  with  its 
soft  carpet  and  comfortable  furniture,  he  looked  up 
quickly. 

"Say,  Miss  Hanson,"  he  said,  holding  out  a  pile  of  proofed 
copy.  "This  needs  classifying.  It  goes  in  tomorrow's  issue. 
Get  it  through  before  four.  Say,  and  you  might  hand  this 
in  to  the  advertisement  department.  A  guy  with  a  tow-head, 
and  a  face  like  emery  cloth  handed  me  twelve  dollars  for  a 
week — and  Sunday.  Reckon  he's  chasm'  up  his  lady  friend, 
and  she's  guessin'  to  lie  low." 

He  passed  her  Leo's  advertisement,  and  went  on  with  his 
work. 

Monica  waited  for  any  further  instructions  to  come,  and, 
as  she  stood,  glanced  down  at  the  sheet  of  paper  containing 
the  advertisement.  In  a  moment  her  attention  was  riveted 
upon  it,  and  a  sickening  feeling  stole  through  her  whole  body. 


86  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Then  her  pulses  were  set  hammering  with  a  nervousness  she 
could  not  control,  and  she  felt  faint. 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Meakin  happened  to  look  up. 

"Well?"  he  inquired. 

Then  he  became  aware  of  the  pallor  of  the  pretty  face  he 
was  accustomed  to  admire,  when  Mrs.  Meakin  was  safely 
within  the  walls  of  their  home  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city. 

"Say,  you're  not  well,"  he  exclaimed  kindly. 

Monica  promptly  pulled  herself  together. 

"It's— it's  just  the  heat,"  she  stammered.  "I'll— go  and 
see  to  these.  Anything  else?" 

"Nothin'  else  just  now.  Say,  don't  worry  too  much  if 
the  heat " 

But  Monica  had  fled  before  he  finished  his  well-intentioned 
admonition.  Once  in  her  own  office  she  flung  herself  into 
the  chair  at  her  desk,  and  sat  staring  at  the  ominous  sheet  of 
paper. 

"Leo!"  she  muttered.  "Whatever  am  I  to  do?  Whatever 
am  I  to  do?" 

For  a  long  time  the  pile  of  copy  remained  untouched  while 
she  struggled  with  the  problem  confronting  her.  She  viewed 
it  from  every  aspect.  And  with  each  fresh  view  it  troubled 
her  the  more.  What  was  her  duty?  What  was  the  right 
course  to  pursue?  This  man  was  Leo.  Elsie's  Leo.  She 
had  no  doubt  of  it.  Leo,  the  father  of  Elsie's  boy.  If  Elsie 
had  lived  she  would  have  welcomed  him.  But  Elsie  was  dead. 
Elsie  was  dead  and  carried  with  her  her  promise  never  to  let 
the  child  know  his  mother's  shame.  Ought  she  to  tell  the 
father  of  this  child?  Ought  she  to  give  him  up?  It  would 
be  an  easy  way  out  of  all  her  difficulties.  Yet  she  had  prom- 
ised to  bring  him  up  as  her  own. 

No,  she  would  not  give  the  boy  up.  It  was  plainly  her 
duty  to  keep  him,  and — yes,  she  knew  it — her  desire.  But 
equally  she  had  a  duty  of  some  sort  to  fulfil  by  this  man. 
He  must  not  be  left  in  ignorance  of  Elsie's  death.  He  must 
be  told  that  or  he  would  haunt  this  town,  and  become  an 
everlasting  source  of  disquiet  to  her.  Yes,  there  was  a  duty 
to  herself  as  well.  She  must  safeguard  herself;  safeguard 
the  child.  And  with  this  conclusion  came  an  inspiration.  She 
would  write  to  him  on  her  typewriter,  and  leave  the  letter 
unsigned. 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   87 

So  she  passed  the  advertisement  on  to  its  department, 
and,  on  a  plain  sheet  of  paper,  sent  the  briefest  possible 
message  to  the  post  office,  Winnipeg. 

"Audie  died  in  child  birth." 

There  was  neither  heading  nor  signature,  and  she  deter- 
mined to  have  it  mailed  from  another  town.  The  more  she 
considered  it  the  more  her  message  pleased  her.  She  was 
keeping  her  promise  to  her  sister,  and  fulfilling  what  she 
believed  to  be  her  duty  to  the  man.  He  had  asked  for  news 
of  Elsie ;  well,  here  was  news  which  was  the  exact  truth. 

Her  work  was  duly  completed  by  four  o'clock,  and  she 
awaited  a  call  from  Mr.  Meakin.  There  would  be  a  number 
of  letters  to  take  down,  she  knew,  when  his  editorial  work 
was  finished  for  the  day.  In  the  meantime  she  had  leisure  to 
reflect  upon  the  visit  of  the  man,  Leo. 

It  was  curious.  Almost  a  coincidence  that  he  should  call 
when  she  was  out.  Had  she  been  in  it  would  have  fallen  to 
her  duty  to  have  interviewed  him  first.  As  it  was  she  had 
missed  seeing  him.  It  was  a  pity.  She  ought  to  have  seen 
him.  Yes,  she  would  have  given  half  a  month's  salary  to  have 
seen  him 

A  bell  rang;  but  it  was  not  Mr.  Meakin's  bell.  It  was 
from  the  outer  office.  She  took  up  the  'phone  at  once.  Could 
it  be ?• 

"Hello!  Oh!  Some  one  to  see  Mr.  Meakin?  Who  is 
it?  What's  that?  Austin  Leyburn?  What's  that?  He's 
dressed  funny?  All  right,  send  him  in  to  me.  Right." 

Monica  put  up  the  receiver  and  waited.  It  was  not  Leo, 
and  she  was  disappointed.  Austin  Leyburn.  She  didn't 
know  the  name. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and,  in  answer  to  the 
girl's  summons,  it  was  thrown  open  by  the  small  boy  who 
piloted  visitors. 

"Mr.  Austin  Leyburn,  Miss!" 

Monica  indicated  a  chair  as  the  door  closed  behind  her 
visitor.  He  took  it  without  hesitation,  and  she  found  herself 
gazing  upon  a  most  extraordinary  object.  He  was  obviously 
a  powerfully  built  man  with  a  keen,  alert  face  and  narrow 
eyes.  He  was  smiling  at  her  with  a  curiously  ironical  smile 
which  rather  annoyed  her.  But  his  general  appearance  was 
deplorable.  His  clothes  were  so  unclean  and  ragged  that, 


88  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

even  among  tramps,  she  never  remembered  seeing  anything 
quite  like  them.  They  were  patched  and  torn  again  in  a 
dozen  different  places,  and  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
have  described  their  original  color  with  any  accuracy.  Yes, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  he  was  a  tramp  of  some  sort.  Yet 
when  he  spoke  his  manner  was  not  that  of  a  tramp.  How- 
ever, as  a  precaution,  Monica  kept  her  foot  over  a  push 
button  which  did  not  belong  to  a  dummy  'phone. 

"If  you'll  state  your  business,  I'll  inquire  if  Mr.  Meakin 
will  see  you,"  she  said,  in  her  most  business-like  way.  "He's 
very  busy.  You  see,  the  paper  will  be  going  to  press  soon." 

"I  don't  guess  I  need  to  worry  the  boss  if  you  happen  to 
know  about  things."  The  man's  manner  was  sharp,  but  his 
smile  remained.  Monica  became  interested.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  the  usual  whine  of  the  tramp  here. 

"I  deal  with  all  inquiries,"  she  said  simply. 

"Confidential?" 

"That  depends  on  the  nature  of  the  confidence." 

"Ah.  Maybe  what  I'm  after  won't  be  reckoned  confi- 
dential." 

"If  you'll " 

"Just  so,  Miss.  Well,  see  here,  maybe  it  isn't  a  heap  ex- 
cept to  me.  I'm  after  a  feller  who  calls  himself  Leo,"  he  said 
distinctly.  Monica  started.  The  man's  quick,  smiling  eyes 
saw  the  start  and  drew  his  conclusions.  "I  see  you  know 
him.  I  knew  he'd  been  here.  Came  this  morning.  You  see 
he's  after  a  woman  belonging  to  this  city.  I  guessed  he'd  get 
around.  I'm  on  his  trail  and  want  him  bad.  Maybe  you 
can  put  me  wise  where  he's  stopping?" 

Monica  shook  her  head  with  a  calmness  she  was  by  no 
means  feeling. 

"I  shouldn't  tell  you  if  I  knew.  You're  quite  right,  I 
know  the  man — by  name,  but  that's  all.  You  see,  we  know 
many  people  by  name — but  there  our  information  to 
strangers  ends." 

"So."  Mr.  Leyburn  eyed  her  coldly.  "Maybe  Mr. 
Meakin,  as  you  call  him,  will " 

"Mr.  Meakin  will  tell  you  no  more.  In  fact,  if  this  is 
your  business  Mr.  Meakin  will  not  see  you." 

Monica  pressed  the  bell  under  her  foot. 

The  man  laughed  harshly. 


TWO  STRANGERS  IN  SAN  SABATANO   89 

"Well,  it  don't  matter.  Guess  I'll  come  up  with  him  sooner 
or  later.  Maybe  he'll  look  into  this  office  again  another 
day."  He  rose,  and  his  hard  eyes  shone  with  a  metallic 
gleam.  "If  he  does — you  can  just  tell  him  that  Tug  is  on 
his  heels.  He's  looking  for  him  bad.  So  he  best  get  busy. 
Good-day." 

The  small  boy  threw  open  the  door,  and  stood  aside  to 
allow  the  visitor  to  pass  out.  Nor,  in  spite  of  the  curious 
threat  in  the  man's  words,  could  Monica  help  a  smile  at  the 
impish  manner  in  which  the  boy  held  his  nose  as  the  man 
passed  by  him. 

The  stranger's  visit  left  an  unsavory  flavor  behind  him. 
Monica  was  disturbed,  and  sat  thinking  hard.  She  was  striv- 
ing hard  to  raise  the  curtain  which  shut  out  her  view  of  the 
life  lying  behind  all  these  people.  She  was  striving  to 
visualize  something  of  that  life  with  which  poor  Elsie  had 
so  long  been  associated.  A  number  of  vague  pictures  hovered 
before  her  mind's  eye,  but  they  were  indistinct,  unreal.  She 
could  not  see  with  eyes  of  knowledge.  How  could  she?  Was 
not  this  life  belonging  to  another  world.  A  world  she  had 
never  beheld,  never  been  brought  into  contact  with?  No,  it 
was  useless  to  try  to  penetrate  those  dark  secrets  which  she 
felt  lay  hidden  behind  the  curtain  she  was  powerless  to  draw 
aside. 

Yet  she  knew  these  things  had  not  come  to  her  to  be  set 
aside  and  forgotten.  They  had  come  to  her  for  a  purpose. 
What  was  that  purpose?  She  tried  to  see  with  her  sister's 
eyes.  What  would  Elsie  have  done,  with  Leo — threatened? 
Ah,  that  was  it ;  that  was  the  purpose.  Her  sister's  responsi- 
bility had  devolved  upon  her.  Elsie  would  have  taken  some 
action  to  help — Leo.  What  would  she  have  done? 

She  thought  and  puzzled  for  a  long  time.  Then  she 
pressed  the  bell  under  her  desk  once  more.  An  inspiration 
had  come. 

When  the  boy  appeared  she  demanded  the  proofs  of  the 
day's  advertisements. 

She  waited  impatiently  until  the  boy  returned,  and  then 
kept  him  waiting  while  she  hastily  extracted  the  one  she  re- 
quired from  the  pile.  She  read  it  over  carefully.  Leo  had 
worded  it  to  suit  her  purpose  well.  Suddenly  she  took  up 
her  blue  pencil.  She  dashed  out  the  word  "Winnipeg"  and 


90  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

substituted  "Toronto"  in  its  place.  And  without  another 
glance  at  it  handed  the  papers  back  to  the  boy. 

"That's  all,"  she  said  briefly. 

But  the  boy  was  full  of  the  impertinence  of  his  kind. 

"Toronto?"  he  read.  "Say,  Miss,  ain't  that  the  place  they 
have  ice  palaces  an'  things?"  he  demanded,  with  a  grin. 

Monica  was  in  no  mood  to  answer  his  questions. 

"Take  them  back,"  she  said  sharply. 

As  the  boy  slouched  off  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with 
a  sigh  of  relief.  She  had  done  her  best  to  put  the  man  calling 
himself  Tug  off  the  track  of  his  quarry. 


AFTER    EIGHTEEN    YEARS  91 


PART   II 
CHAPTER    I 

AFTER   EIGHTEEN   YEARS 

MONICA  HANSON  stood  in  front  of  the  full-length  mirror  in 
her  bedroom.  For  a  long  time  she  stood  viewing  her  fair 
reflection  with  a  smile  at  once  half  humorous,  half  tearful. 

Thirty-five ! 

It  sounded  terrible  as  she  muttered  the  age  she  knew 
herself  to  be.  Thirty-five!  Yet  the  perfect  blue  eyes  were 
not  a  day  older,  as  they  looked  back  at  her  out  of  the  glass. 
There  was  no  hardening  in  their  depths;  there  were  no 
gathering  lines  about  their  fringed  lids.  Perhaps  there  was 
a  deeper,  wiser  look  in  them;  a  look  suggesting  a  wider 
knowledge,  a  more  perfect  sympathy  with  the  life  into  which 
they  had  peeped  during  her  years  of  struggling.  But  there 
was  no  aging  in  them.  The  rich,  ripe  mouth,  too,  so  wonder- 
fully firm,  yet  gentle,  the  broad,  intelligent  forehead  with 
its  fair,  even  brows.  There  was  not  one  single  unsightly  line 
to  disfigure  these  features  which  displayed  so  much  of  the 
strong  character  which  lay  behind  them.  Her  wealth  of  fair, 
wavy  hair,  which  since  her  earliest  days  had  been  her  one 
little  conceit,  her  constant  joy  and  pride,  was  faultlessly 
dressed,  nor  had  she  ever  yet  found  in  its  midst  one  of  those 
silver  threads  whose  discovery  never  fails  to  strike  terror 
into  the  heart  of  an  aging  woman. 

No,  she  beheld  nothing  in  her  reflection  to  cause  her  a 
single  pang,  a  single  heartache.  Yet  her  heart  was  aching; 
and  the  pain  of  it  was  in  the  smile  which  came  back  to  her 
from  her  reflection. 

Had  Monica  only  known  it,  the  years  had  been  more  than 
kind  to  her.  With  a  little  more  womanly  vanity  she  would 
have  understood  that  her  girlish  attractions  had  been  in- 
creased a  hundredfold.  Not  only  had  the  years  matured 
her  figure  to  perfections  which  can  never  belong  to  early 
youth,  but  they  had  endowed  her  with  a  beauty  of  soul  and 
mind,  far  more  rarely  found  in  one  of  such  unusual  physical 
attraction. 


92  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  such  ponderings  before  her  glass  were  useless,  per- 
haps harmful.  It  was  all  so  impossible.  So  she  turned  away 
with  a  little  impatient  gesture,  and,  picking  up  the  letter 
lying  on  her  bed,  she  passed  through  the  folding  doors  into 
her  sitting-room  beyond. 

The  winter  sun  was  shining  in  through  frosty  windows ; 
that  wonderful  winter  sun  which  brightens  and  makes  joyous 
the  Canadian  dead  season,  without  shedding  sufficient 
warmth  to  disturb  the  thermometer  from  its  despairing 
depths  of  cold. 

She  crossed  to  the  window,  and  stood  beside  the  heat 
radiator  while  she  read  her  letter  for  perhaps  the  twentieth 
time.  It  was  quite  short,  and  intensely  characteristic  of 
the  writer.  Monica  understood  this.  The  lack  of  effusion 
in  no  way  blinded  her  to  the  stormy  passion  which  had 
inspired  it. 

"DEAR  MONICA  : 

"I  am  going  to  call  on  you  at  4  o'clock  this  afternoon,  if 
you  have  no  objection.  If  you  have,  'phone  me.  I  simply 
cannot  rest  until  the  subject  of  our  talk  the  other  night  is 
settled. 

"Yours, 

"ALEXANDER  HENDRIE." 

There  was  a  wistful  longing  in  her  eyes  as  the  woman 
looked  up  from  the  brief  note.  The  subject  of  their  talk. 
He  could  not  rest.  Had  she  rested,  or  known  peace  of  mind 
since  that  evening?  She  knew  she  had  not.  She  knew  that 
come  what  might  that  calm  which  belongs  to  a  heart  un- 
touched by  love  could  never  again  be  hers.  She  knew  that 
love,  at  last,  had  come  knocking  at  the  door  of  her  soul ;  nor 
had  it  knocked  in  vain,  in  spite  of  the  impossibility  of  it  all. 
She  had  not  'phoned.  Instead  she  had  spent  two  hours  over 
her  toilet  to  receive  the  man  who  was  her  employer,  and  had 
now  become  her  lover. 

No  one  knew  better  than  she  the  happiness  that  might 
have  been  hers  in  her  newly  found  regard  for  this  great 
wheat  grower  of  Alberta,  had  things  only  been  different. 
She  loved  him ;  she  had  admired  him  ever  since  she  came  into 
his  employ,  but  now  she  loved  him  with  all  the  long-pent 


AFTER    EIGHTEEN    YEARS  93 

passion  of  a  woman  who  has  for  years  deliberately  shut  the 
gates  of  her  soul  to  all  such  feelings. 

She  knew  her  love  must  be  denied.  There  was  no  hope 
for  it. 

The  trials  she  had  gone  through  for  the  sake  of  her  pledge 
to  her  dying  sister  were  far  too  vividly  in  her  mind  to  leave 
her  with  any  hope  for  this  love  of  hers.  She  must  crush  it 
out.  She  must  once  more  steel  herself,  that  her  faith  with 
the  dead  might  be  kept. 

She  dropped  upon  the  ottoman  beside  the  window,  and, 
gazing  out  on  Winnipeg's  busy  main  street,  gave  herself  up 
to  profound  thought.  Her  incisive  brain  swiftly  became 
busy,  reviewing  the  career  which  had  been  hers  since — 
since  young  Frank,  her  beloved  boy,  the  child  who  had  cost 
her  a  sister's  life,  had  become  her  one  object  and  care. 

Her  deep  eyes  grew  introspective,  and  her  pretty  lips 
closed  firmly. 

She  had  not  traveled  an  easy  road  during  those  years. 
Far  from  it.  The  rocks  prophesied  by  the  kindly  doctor 
had  been  quickly  realized.  They  had  come  well-nigh  to 
wrecking  her  craft  at  the  outset.  Only  that  its  ribs  were  so 
stout,  and  the  heart  that  guided  it  so  strong,  it  must  in- 
evitably have  been  doomed. 

So  much  for  her  youthful  conceit ;  so  much  for  the  bound- 
less optimism  of  her  years.  She  was  caught  among  the 
very  first  shoals  that  presented  themselves  in  the  ebb  tide 
of  her  fortunes  six  months  before  the  completion  of  her 
contract  on  the  Dally  Citizen.  Would  she  ever  forget  the 
— yes,  tragedy  of  that  moment?  She  thought  not. 

Everything  had  gone  along  so  smoothly.  Her  fears  had 
been  lulled.  There  was  no  sign  to  point  the  coming  of  the 
disaster.  Yes,  that  was  it.  There  had  been  overconfidence. 
The  complications  at  her  sister's  death  had  been  forgotten. 
There  had  been  no  unpleasant  developments  to  remind  her 
of  the  pitfalls  with  which  she  was  surrounded.  So  she  had 
grown  careless  in  her  confidence.  In  the  warmth  of  her 
girl's  heart,  her  rapidly  growing  love  for  the  little  life  in  her 
charge,  she  found  herself  spending  every  moment  of  her 
spare  time  with  the  child  she  intended  to  teach  to  call  her 
"mother." 

They  were  happy  days.     The  joy  of  them  still  remained. 


94  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Nor,  for  all  the  trouble  they  had  caused  her,  did  she  regret  a 
single  one  of  them.  But  her  indiscretion  grew,  and  so  the 
blow  fell. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday.  In  the  afternoon.  She  remembered 
it  well;  a  glorious  sunny  day  in  early  summer.  She  was 
pushing  the  baby  coach  along  the  sidewalk  of  the  broad  coun- 
try road  toward  the  city.  She  had  paused  to  readjust  the 
sunshade  over  the  child's  head.  When  she  looked  up  it  was 
to  discover  a  light,  top  buggy,  drawn  by  a  fast  trotter, 
rapidly  approaching.  Mr.  Meakin  was  driving  it,  and  beside 
him  sat  his  little,  chapel-going  wife. 

They  saw  her  and  promptly  pulled  up;  and  instantly 
Monica  knew  that  trouble  was  knocking  at  her  door.  Mrs. 
Meakin  did  not  like  her.  She  did  not  approve  of  her  hus- 
band's secretary ;  and  Mrs.  Meakin  was  one  of  those  narrow, 
straight-laced  puritans,  who  never  cease  to  thank  Provi- 
dence that  they  are  so  pure. 

"Why,  it's  Miss  Hanson,"  she  promptly  exclaimed.  "And 

— oh,  the  lovely  baby.  Why "  She  looked  at  Monica's 

scarlet  face  and  broke  off. 

Mr.  Meakin  took  up  the  greeting  in  the  cordial  fashion 
of  a  man  who  is  well  disposed. 

"Say,  Miss  Hanson,  it's  a  hot  day  for  you  to  be  pushing 
that  coach.  You  surely  ought  to  be  around  an  ice  cream 
parlor  with  one  of  your  beaus.  Not  out  airing  some  friend's 
kid." 

But  Monica's  confusion  only  increased  under  the  sharp 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Meakin,  which  never  left  her  face. 

"A  baby  can't  have  too  much  of  this  beautiful  air,"  she 
said  helplessly. 

"Why  doesn't  its  mother  look  after  it?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Meakin. 

"She's— she's  busy." 

Monica's  attempts  at  evasion  were  so  feeble,  she  had  so 
little  love  for  subterfuge,  that,  to  a  mind  as  prone  to  sus- 
picion as  Mrs.  Meakin's,  the  word  "mystery"  quickly  pre- 
sented itself. 

"Whose  is  it?" 

The  inevitable  question  seemed  to  thunder  into  the 
wretched  girl's  ears. 

Whose  is  it?     Whose  is  it?     It  was  useless  to  lie  to  this 


AFTER    EIGHTEEN    YEARS  95 

woman,  whom  she  knew  had  no  love  for  her.  So  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  she  did  the  only  thing  that  seemed 
possible,  seeing  Mr.  Meakin  was  her  employer.  But  she  did 
it  so  badly  that,  even  while  she  spoke,  she  knew  her  doom 
was  sealed. 

"She  belongs  back  there."  Monica  pointed  at  the  distant 
farm  house. 

"That  house?"  cried  Mrs.  Meakin  sharply.  "Why,  that's 
Mrs.  Gadly's.  I "  She  turned  abruptly  to  her  hus- 
band. "We'd  better  drive  on,  or  we'll  be  late  back  for 
supper,  and  that  will  make  us  late  for  chapel." 

With  a  flourish  of  his  whip,  and  a  cheery  good-bye,  Mr. 
Meakin  set  his  "three^minute"  trotter  going  again,  and 
Monica  was  left  to  her  dismay. 

She  knew.  She  needed  no  instinct  to  tell  her.  It  had  all 
been  written  in  Mrs.  Meakin's  icy  face.  The  woman  would 
find  out  all  about  the  baby  she  had  seen  her  husband's  sec- 
retary with.  She  would  smell  out  the  whole  trail  with  that 
nose  which  was  ever  sharp  for  an  evil  scent. 

She  continued  her  walk  thinking  hard  all  the  while,  and 
finally  took  the  child  back  to  its  nurse  at  the  usual  time. 

Mrs.  Gadly  met  her  at  the  front  door,  and  Monica  put  a 
sharp  question. 

"Has  Mrs.  Meakin  been  here?" 

"She  surely  has,  mam,"  replied  the  woman,  smiling.  "And 
a  God-fearin'  woman  she  is.  I've  known  her  years  an'  years. 
I  didn't  jest  know  you  was  her  good  man's  secretary.  She's 
a  lady,  she  is ;  a  real,  elegant  lady.  An'  she  was  all  took  up 
with  the  baby,  an'  the  way  I'd  looked  after  him.  She  said  as 
it  was  a  great  thing  for  a  woman  who  's  lost  her  baby  to 
have  the  care  of  another  woman's  child,  kind  o'  softens  the 
pain.  An'  when  I  told  her  as  you  paid  me  so  liberal  for 

it Why,  mam,  you  ain't  faint?  Ah,  it's  the  sun;  you 

best  come  right  inside  and  set  down." 

It  had  been  a  terrible  moment  for  Monica.  She  knew 
that  her  career  in  San  Sabatano  had  suddenly  terminated. 
The  God-fearing  Mrs.  Meakin  would  have  no  mercy  on  her, 
particularly  as  she  was  her  husband's  secretary. 

She  returned  to  her  apartments  that  evening  with  her 
mind  made  up  to  a  definite  course;  and,  on  the  Monday 
morning  following,  before  she  went  to  her  office,  she  looked 


96  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

up  her  contract  with  the  Daily  Citizen.  She  took  it  with 
her.  She  knew  that  the  tiling  she  was  about  to  do  was  a 
tacit  admission  of  the  child's  parentage.  But  she  intended  it 
so  to  be,  since  truthful  explanation  was  denied  her. 

Mr.  Meakin  was  amiability  itself.  But  there  was  evident 
relief  in  the  sigh  with  which  he  accepted  the  return  of  the 
girl's  contract. 

"I'm  real  sorry,  Miss  Hanson,  real  sorry,"  he  said  sin- 
cerely. "But  I  guess  you're  right,  seeing  things  are  as  they 
are.  You  see,  Mrs.  Mea — you  see,  San  Sabatano  has  no- 
tions. I'd  just  like  to  say  right  here,  though,  I'm  the  loser 
by  your  going.  I'm  the  loser  by  a  heap.  An'  whenever 
you're  wanting  a  reference  I'll  hand  you  a  bully  one.  Just 
you  write  me  when  you  need  it.  Meanwhile  the  cashier'll 
hand  you  a  check  for  salary,  right  away." 

Yes,  whatever  his  wife's  attitude  toward  her,  Mr.  Meakin 
stood  her  good  friend,  for,  on  her  departure,  the  cashier 
handed  her  a  check  for  three  months'  salary — which  she  had 
not  earned! 

After  she  left  San  Sabatano  her  fortunes,  for  a  while,  be- 
came more  than  checkered.  Her  "ups"  were  few,  and  her 
"downs"  were  considerably  in  the  ascendant.  For  a  long 
time  her  youth  prevented  her  obtaining  work  in  which  there 
was  any  scope  for  her  abilities  and  ambitions,  consequently 
the  salaries  were  equally  limited  in  their  possibilities.  Often 
she  had  to  accept  "free  lance"  stenography  and  typing,  and 
not  infrequently  auxiliary  clerk  work  of  a  humdrum  and 
narrowing  order.  But  to  none  of  these  things  would  she 
definitely  commit  herself,  nor  would  she  permit  them  to  shut 
out  the  sun  of  her  ambitions.  She  would  keep  on  working, 
and  watching,  and  waiting,  for  that  opportunity  which  she 
felt  was  bound  to  come  in  the  end. 

Thus,  with  each  reverse  in  the  stern  battle  she  was  fight- 
ing, she  grew  wider  in  her  knowledge  of  life  as  it  was.  Her 
upbringing  had  blinded  her,  and  her  own  simple  honesty 
and  faith  had  further  narrowed  her  focus.  But  these  things 
were  passing,  and  her  view  widened  as  the  months  lengthened 
into  years. 

But  her  trials  were  many.  Not  the  least  of  them  was 
when,  as  Miss  Hanson,  it  was  discovered  she  was  always 
accompanied  by  a  boy  with  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair,  practi- 


AFTER   EIGHTEEN    YEARS  97 

cally  the  color  of  her  own.  Nor  was  there  any  chance  of 
quieting  the  voice  of  scandal,  when  it  was  known  that  the 
particular  child  always  called  her  "mother." 

Twice  this  occurred  in  boarding  houses  of  an  ultra-re- 
spectable tone,  which,  on  the  whole,  was  not  so  damaging 
as  it  was  annoying.  But  when  her  supposed  offence  attacked 
her  livelihood,  as,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  it  very  soon 
did,  it  was  with  heartache  and  grief  that  Monica  realized 
that  a  drastic  change  must  be  brought  about. 

She  knew  that,  for  his  own  sake,  she  must  temporarily 
part  with  the  boy.  It  was  imperative  that  she  earn  the 
money  necessary  for  his  education,  and,  with  this  scandal 
attaching  to  her,  that  would  very  soon  be  made  impossible. 
Furthermore,  she  realized  that  he  wras  rapidly  growing  to 
years  of  childish  understanding  when  it  would  be  hopeless, 
and  even  dangerous,  to  attempt  to  answer  the  multiplicity  of 
questions  regarding  his  supposed  father  which  flowed  from 
his  lips,  without  giving  a  damaging  impression  to  his  young 
mind.  Later,  when  he  grew  up,  she  would  tell  him  the  false 
story  which  she  had  hardened  her  heart  to,  and  trust  to 
Providence  that  it  might  satisfy,  and  have  no  evil  conse- 
quences. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  part  from  him.  She  loved  the 
boy,  whom  she  had  had  christened  Frank  Burton,  with  all 
the  profound  affection  of  her  ardent  nature.  He  was  pos- 
sibly more  precious  to  her  than  her  own  son  might  have  been, 
if  only  for  the  fact  of  the  pains  she  was  at  to  keep  him,  and 
the  trials  which  his  upbringing  brought  her. 

Then,  too,  she  was  never  quite  without  a  haunting  fear 
that  at  any  time  some  unforseen  circumstance  might  arise 
and  snatch  him  from  her  care.  Besides  these  things,  the  boy 
inherited  all  his  mother's  generous  nature;  all  her  loyalty; 
and,  in  a  hundred  other  ways,  reminded  her  of  the  sister  she 
had  loved.  To  Monica  he  was  the  sweetest  creature  in  the 
world,  and  the  parting  with  him  came  well-nigh  to  breaking 
her  heart. 

But  it  proved  itself  for  the  best.  It  almost  seemed  as  if 
Frank's  going  were  in  some  way  responsible  for  the  change 
of  fortune  which  so  quickly  followed.  Within  a  month, 
Monica  secured  an  excellent  position  in  a  Chicago  wheat 

broker's  office  at  the  biggest  salary  she  had  ever  earned. 
8 


98  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Furthermore,  she  remained  in  this  place  for  a  year,  with 
unqualified  success.  Thence  she  went  to  another  wheat 
operator's  office.  Then  on,  from  post  to  post,  always  ad- 
vancing her  interests,  and  always  in  the  wheat  world.  Truly 
the  boy's  going  away  to  school  seemed  like  the  first  stepping- 
stone  to  the  successful  career  she  so  ardently  desired. 

So  Frank's  education  was  completed  in  the  manner  Monica 
most  desired.  Her  experience  in  the  world  of  wheat  inspired 
her  with  definite  ideas  as  to  his  future;  ideas  in  which,  for- 
tunately, he  readily  concurred. 

No  one  knew  better  than  Monica  the  fortunes  to  be  won 
from  the  soil,  and  she  was  at  pains  to  impress  on  his  young 
mind  that  such  fortunes  were  far  more  honestly  and  easily 
earned  than  in  the  commercial  world  to  which  she  belonged. 

Therefore  at  the  age  of  fifteen  Frank  repaired  to  an  agri- 
cultural institution  to  learn  in  theory  that  which,  later,  he 
was  to  test  in  practice. 

It  was  during  his  career  at  the  agricultural  college  that 
Monica  first  became  the  secretary  of  Alexander  Hendrie, 
the  greatest  wheat  grower  and  operator  in  the  west  of 
Canada.  He  was  a  man  she  had  known  by  reputation  for 
several  years,  ever  since  she  first  stepped  within  the  portals 
of  the  wheat  world.  She  had  never  come  into  actual  contact 
with  him  before,  but  his  name  was  a  household  word  wherever 
wheat  was  dealt  in.  Besides  being  a  big  operator  on  the 
Winnipeg  and  Chicago  markets,  he  owned  something  like 
thirty  square  miles  of  prairie  land  in  Alberta  under  wheat 
cultivation,  and  was  notorious  for  his  scrupulous  honesty 
and  hard  dealing.  It  was  a  saying  in  the  world  of  which 
he  was  the  uncrowned  king  that  it  was  always  safe  to  follow 
where  he  led,  but  only  to  follow.  Of  course  he  was  a  mil- 
lionaire several  times  over,  but  there  was  no  ostentation,  no 
vulgar  display  with  him.  He  lived  a  sparing,  hard-working 
life,  and  in  such  an  employ  Monica  felt  that  she  had  reached 
the  goal  of  her  career. 

The  manner  of  her  meeting  with  him  was  curious,  and 
almost  like  the  work  of  Fate.  But  the  manner  of  her  en- 
gagement as  his  secretary  was  still  more  curious,  yet  char- 
acteristic of  the  man. 

It  happened  on  the  railroad.  She  was  returning  from  the 
west  coast  with  her  then  employer,  Henry  Louth,  one  of  the 


AFTER    EIGHTEEN    YEARS  99 

most  daring  of  the  Chicago  wheat  men.  Perhaps  a  better 
description  of  him  would  have  been  "reckless,"  but  the  news- 
papers reported  him  as  daring — until  after  his  death. 

Like  many  another  speculator  in  the  past,  this  man  had 
become  disastrously  involved  in  a  wild  endeavor  to  corner 
wheat.  But  he  found,  as  others  had  found  before  him,  in- 
stead of  completing  the  corner  he  hoped  to  make,  he  had  only 
created  a  Frankenstein  which  threatened  him  with  destruc- 
tion. So  far  did  he  suddenly  find  himself  involved  that  only 
financial  assistance  on  an  enormous  scale  could  have  saved 
him  from  ruin.  His  thoughts  turned  at  once  to  Alexander 
Hendrie,  who  was  then  in  Vancouver.  He  was  the  only  man 
who  could  afford  him  adequate  help.  There  was  nothing  for 
it  but  a  desperate  rush  across  the  continent  on  his  forlorn 
hope,  and  he  undertook  the  journey  at  once,  accompanied 
by  Monica. 

But  like  the  majority  of  forlorn  hopes  inspired  by  ill  for- 
tune, the  journey  ended  in  dire  disaster.  When  Louth  put 
his  proposition  to  the  millionaire  he  learned  to  his  horror 
that  this  man  was  actually  the  head  of  the  syndicate  who 
had  been  his  undoing.  It  was  an  absurd  blending  of  comedy 
and  tragedy,  yet  the  situation  was  wholly  characteristic  of 
the  methods  of  Alexander  Hendrie.  The  work  had  been 
carried  out  with  all  the  subtlety  of  the  astute  mind  which 
had  lifted  the  man  to  his  present  position.  It  had  been 
carried  out  by  secret  agents,  and  never  for  one  moment  had 
his  name  been  allowed  to  figure  in  the  affair.  But  it  was 
Hendrie  who  was  responsible  for  the  shattering  of  the  edifice 
of  monopoly  Louth  had  so  recklessly  attempted  to  set  up; 
and  the  latter  set  out  on  his  return  journey  a  broken  and 
beaten  man. 

Monica  would  never  forget  that  journey,  and  all  it  meant 
to  her.  While  the  train  was  held  up  by  a  heavy  snowfall 
at  a  place  called  Glacier,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  Henry 
Louth,  in  his  private  car,  took  the  opportunity  of  shooting 
himself.  The  sensation,  the  hubbub,  the  excitement  the 
affair  caused  was  intense;  and  Monica  attended  him  during 
his  dying  moments,  afterwards  watching  at  his  bedside  until 
his  body  was  removed  by  the  authorities. 

It  was  during  this  latter  period,  when  the  excitement 
had  died  down,  and  all  was  quiet  again,  that  a  large  man 


100  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

entered  the  car  from  another  part  of  the  train.  He  came 
straight  to  the  bedside  and  looked  gravely  at  the  dead  man. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  beautiful  woman  beside  tht  bed,  and 
looked  at  her  with  unsmiling  eyes. 

She  knew  him  at  once,  and  returned  his  look  unflinchingly. 
It  was  Alexander  Hendrie.  She  recognized  the  strong, 
rugged  face  of  the  man,  and  his  abundant  fair  hair. 

In  a  moment  a  cold  resentment  at  the  intrusion  rose  up  in 
her,  and,  for  the  life  of  her,  she  could  not  restrain  the  impulse 
to  give  it  expression. 

"Well?"  she  inquired.     "Are  you  satisfied?" 

"How?" 

The  man  displayed  no  emotion.  His  ejaculation  was  the 
expression  of  a  mind  preoccupied. 

"You — you  are  responsible  for  this." 

Monica's  challenge  came  with  biting  coldness.  But 
Hendrie  only  shook  his  head. 

"Wrong.  Guess  you  don't  understand.  Maybe  most 
folks — who  don't  understand — will  say  that.  But  I'm  not 
responsible  for — that."  He  indicated  the  dead  man  with  a 
contemptuous  nod.  "I  was  on  a  legitimate  proposition  to 
prevent  the  consumers  of  wheat  being  plundered.  I'm  losing 
money  by  what  I've  done.  Guess  he  hadn't  the  grit  to  stand 
the  racket  of  his  dirty  game.  Men  like  him  are  well  out  of  it." 

Monica  dropped  her  eyes  from  the  steady  gaze  of  the 
iron  man  before  her.  Somehow  she  felt  ashamed  of  her 
impulsive  accusation.  In  his  concise  fashion  he  had  given 
her  a  new  understanding  of  what  had  happened. 

"I  hadn't  seen  it  that  way  before,"  she  said,  almost 
humbly. 

Hendrie  nodded. 

"You  were  his  secretary,"  he  said,  with  a  subtle  emphasis. 

"Yes." 

Again  the  man  nodded. 

"I've  heard  of  you." 

Then  he  turned  as  if  about  to  go.  But  he  did  not  go. 
He  paused,  and  again  his  steady  eyes  sought  hers. 

"Guess  he's  dead.  I  need  another  secretary.  You  can 
have  the  job." 

This  was  Monica's  first  encounter  with  a  personality 
which  had  a  strange  and  powerful  attraction  for  her. 


AFTER    EIGHTEEN    YEARS  101 

Two  weeks  later  she  found  herself  in  her  new  position, 
established  in  the  millionaire's  palal'a-  offee-?  i'i  Winnipeg 
at,  what  was  for  her,  a  princely  salary. 

At  the  end  of  nearly  two  years  she  was  still  with  him,  a 
privileged,  confidential  secretary ;  and  at  last  the  woman  in 
her  was  crying  out  against  the  head  which  had  for  so  long 
governed  her  affairs.  The  woman  in  her  had  been  too 
strenuously  subjected  in  her  eighteen  years  of  a  commercial 
career.  She  had  shut  her  ears  to  every  cry  of  rebellion  for 
the  sake  of  her  quixotic  pledge.  But  now  they  were  too 
loud,  too  strong  to  be  any  longer  ignored,  and  their  incessant 
pleading  found  an  almost  ready  ear. 

Alexander  Hendrie  had  offered  her  marriage.  He  had 
done  more.  This  apparently  cold  commercial  machine  had 
shown  her  a  side  of  his  nature  which  the  eye  of  his  world  was 
never  permitted  to  witness.  He  had  thrown  open  the  furnace 
doors  of  his  masterful  soul,  and  she  had  witnessed  such  a 
fire  of  passionate  love  that  left  her  dazed  and  powerless 
before  its  fierce  intensity. 

And  she — she  had  needed  little  urging.  The  wonderful 
attraction  of  this  personality  had  ripened  during  her  two 
years  of  service.  She  no  longer  worked  with  every  faculty 
straining  for  the  handsome  salary  he  gave  her;  she  worked 
for  the  man.  Her  whole  heart  was  wrapped  up  in  his  achieve- 
ment. Yes,  she  knew  that  he  stood  before  even  her  love  for 
the  boy  whom  she  had  taught  to  call  her  "mother." 

That  was  her  trouble  now.  That  was  the  one  all-per- 
vading drop  of  gall  in  her  cup  of  happiness.  Dr.  Strong 
had  warned  her,  and  now  she  was  torn  by  the  hardness  of  her 
lot  as  she  gazed  upon  the  frowning  crags  which  loomed  up 
on  her  horizon. 

She  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  her  bureau.  She  picked 
a  letter  up  that  was  lying  on  the  top  of  it.  It  was  the  last 
letter  she  had  received  from  young  Frank,  from  the  farm  he 
was  on,  not  far  from  Calford,  just  outside  the  little  township 
of  Gleber.  She  read  it  through  again.  One  paragraph 
particularly  held  her  attention  and  she  read  it  a  second 
time. 

"I've  met  such  a  bully  girl.  Her  name's  Phyllis  Raysun. 
She's  just  about  my  own  age.  It  was  at  a  dance,  at  a  farm 
twenty  miles  away.  We  danced  ten  dances  together.  Oh, 


102  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

mother,  you  will  like  her.  She's  fine.  Pretty  as  anything, 
with  dark  eyes  and  dark  hair " 

Monica  went  back  to  her  seat  at  the  window.  There  was 
a  smile  in  her  eyes,  but  there  was  trouble  in  them,  too.  She 
understood  that  Frank  was  grown  up.  He  was  grown  up, 
and  like  all  the  rest  of  young  people  his  thoughts  were  turn- 
ing toward  girls  and  matrimony. 

Frank  was  still  in  ignorance  of  the  facts  of  his  birth.  She, 
Monica,  was  his  "moiher,"  so  far  as  he  knew,  and  he  under- 
stood that  his  father  was  dead.  This  was  the  belief  she  had 
brought  him  up  to.  This  was  the  belief  she  hoped  to  keep 
him  in.  But  now,  all  too  late,  she  was  realizing  through  such 
letters  as  these  that  a  time  must  soon  come  when  he  would 
want  to'  know  more ;  when  the  preliminary  lies  her  sister  had 
forced  her  into  m*is£  be  augmented  by  a  whole  tissue  of 
falsehood  to  keep  the  secret  of  his  mother's  shame  from 
him. 

Her  determination  to  shield  her  sister  was  still  her  prin- 
cipal thought. 

At  all  costs  her  promise  to  the  dying  woman  must  be  kept. 
There  should  be  no  weakening.  She  would  carefully  prepare 
her  story.  Lies — it  would  all  be  lies.  But  she  could  not  help 
it.  She  felt  they  were  lies  for  which  there  was  a  certain 
justification,  lies  which  possessed  no  base  object,  but  rather 
the  reverse. 

But  no.w  had  come  this  fresh  complication  in  the  person 
of  Alexander  Hendrie.  Here  was  something  she  had  never 
even  dreamed  of.  He  became  something  more  than  a  com- 
plication. He  was  a  threat.  She  could  not  marry  him. 
She  must  definitely  refuse  him.  And  then 

Despair  took  hold  of  her  and  wrung  her  heart.  Marriage 
she  knew  was  forever  denied  her.  She  had  known  it  while 
she  dressed  herself  and  prepared  to  receive  the  man  she  loved 
that  afternoon.  She  had  known  it  even  while  she  rejoiced 
in  her  own  attractiveness,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  love  she 
had  inspired. 

She  turned  to  the  window  with  a  deep  sigh  and  stared 
hopelessly  out  of  it  at  the  keen  winter  sunshine. 

To  contemplate  marriage  with  a  man  as  passionately  in 
love  as  Alexander  Hendrie,  a  man  as  strong,  as  masterful  as 
he,  with  the  existence  of  her  boy  to  be  explained  away,  would 


ALEXANDER    HENDRIE  103 

be  rank  madness.  It  was  hopeless,  impossible.  It  could 
not  be. 

No,  she  knew.  She  needed  no  prompting.  Her  course 
lay  clear  before  her.  She  dared  not  sacrifice  the  hard  strug- 
gles of  those  eighteen  years  for  this  love  which  had  at  last 
come  into  her  life.  She  knew  now  how  she  had  sacrificed 
herself  on  the  altar  of  affection  when  she  pledged  herself  to 
the  care  of  her  sister's  child.  That  sacrifice  must  go  on  to 
the  end,  come  what  might.  It  was  hard,  hard,  but  she  reso- 
lutely faced  the  destiny  which  she  had  marked  out  for  herself. 

That  was  why  she  had  not  telephoned  to  her  employer  to 
put  him  off.  That  was  why  she  had  specially  prepared  her 
toilet  to  receive  him.  She  would  definitely  refuse  to  marry 
him.  But  she  would  rather  lacerate  her  already  wounded 
heart  by  the  painful  delight  of  an  interview,  than  shut  out 
of  her  life  this  one  passionate  memory  under  the  cold  seal  of 
an  envelope. 

It  was  her  woman's  way,  but  it  was  none  the  less  sincere, 
none  the  less  strong. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALEXANDER  HENDRIE 

HAD  Monica  only  known  it  her  weakness  lay  in  the  very 
strength  of  that  loyalty  which  held  her  to  her  promise  to  her 
dead  sister.  She  was  far  too  honest  to  deal  successfully  in 
affairs  which  demanded  the  smallest  shadow  of  subterfuge. 
At  the  best  she  could  only  hope  to  lie  blunderingly,  and  to 
blunder  in  falsehood  leads  to  sure  disaster. 

So  she  had  no  real  understanding  of  that  which  lay  before 
her,  the  endless  troubles  she  was  preparing  for  herself  and 
those  belonging  to  her.  The  pity  of  it.  One  could  almost 
imagine  the  Angel  of  Truth  wringing  his  hands,  and  weeping 
for  the  mistaken  honesty  which  clung  to  a  quixotic  promise 
given  eighteen  years  ago  to  a  dying  woman. 

It  was  a  nervous,  troubled  woman  who  started  at  the 
clang  of  the  bell  at  her  outer  door.  She  turned  with  terrified 
eyes  to  the  silver  clock  which  stood  on  her  bureau.  It  was 
four  o'clock.  Four  o'clock  to  the  minute;  and  instinctively 


104  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

her  hands  went  up  to  her  hair,  and  nimble  fingers  lightly 
patted  it. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  irresolutely  staring  before  her. 
She  seemed  in  desperate  doubt,  as  though  laboring  under 
desire  to  greet  her  visitor,  while  instinctively  fearing  the  out- 
come of  his  visit.  The  next  moment  her  silken  skirts  rustled 
as  she  hurriedly  passed  out  to  her  front  door. 

Alexander  Hendrie  followed  her  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
promptly  its  femininity  gave  way  to  the  atmosphere  which 
his  personality  seemed  to  shed  upon  all  that  encoun- 
tered it. 

It  was  not  an  essentially  refined  personality,  it  was  too 
rugged,  too  grimly  natural,  too  suggestive  of  Nature  in  her 
harsher  moments  to  possess  any  of  the  softer  refinements 
of  life.  A  bald,  broken  crag  set  in  the  midst  of  a  flower 
garden  of  perfect  order  would  rob  its  surroundings  of  its 
delicate  charm  and  trifling  beauties.  So  it  was  with  the  man, 
Hendrie,  in  the  essentially  feminine  room  which  was  Monica's 
care.  He  dwarfed  the  refinements  of  it  with  a  magnetic 
claim  for  his  own  rugged  picturesqueness. 

He  was  a  man  of  something  over  six  feet  in  height.  There 
was  not  an  ounce  of  superfluous  flesh  upon  his  muscular, 
erect  form,  which  was  clad  in  the  simple  fashion  of  a  well- 
tailored  man  who  takes  but  little  interest  in  his  clothes.  But 
these  things  were  almost  lost  sight  of  in  the  absorbing  in- 
terest of  his  rather  plain  face. 

An  artist  painting  the  picture  of  a  Viking  of  old  would 
have  reveled  in  such  a  face,  and  such  a  wealth  of  waving 
fair  hair.  He  would  have  caught  the  look  of  confidence,  the 
atmosphere  of  victory  which  lay  in  every  detail  of  the  strong 
mold  in  which  his  features  were  cast. 

It  was  a  face  full  of  faults,  yet  it  was  such  a  combination 
of  strength  and  mentality  that  no  eye  trained  to  the  study  of 
physiognomy  could  have  resisted  it.  The  lines  in  it  were 
pronounced.  Yet  every  line  was  a  definite  indication  of 
the  power  behind  it.  There  was  a  contemplative  light  shin- 
ing in  the  keen  gray  eyes  which  told  of  perfect  control  of  all 
emotions;  there  was  a  definite  indentation  between  the  fair, 
ample  brows,  which  suggested  a  power  of  concentration. 
The  nose  was  broad  and  pronounced,  with  curiously  sensitive 
nostrils.  The  cheekbones  were  lean  and  broad.  The  mouth 


ALEXANDER    HENDRIE  105 

was  broad,  too,  but  firmly  closed,  and  quite  free  from  the 
least  suggestion  of  animal  sensuality.  Yet  it  was  a  hard 
face;  not  hard  in  the  sense  of  cruelty,  it  was  hard  in  its 
definite,  almost  relentless  purpose. 

Monica  realized  something  of  all  this  as  she  brought  a 
large  rocker  forward  for  his  use;  and  her  heart  failed  her 
as  she  remembered  the  mission  that  had  brought  him  to  her 
apartment. 

"You're  pretty  comfortable  here,  Monica,"  he  said,  glanc- 
ing round  with  a  faintly  approving  smile,  as  he  dropped  into 
the  rocker. 

The  woman  followed  his  glance  with  a  responsive  smile. 

"Thanks  to  you,"  she  said  readily,  without  noting  one 
detail  of  the  tastefully  arranged  furnishings  which  had 
brought  forth  his  comment. 

The  man's  brows  went  up  in  swift  inquiry. 

"How?" 

Monica  sat  down.  She  was  glad  of  the  support,  but  her 
manner  was  perfectly  easy. 

"The  generous  salary  you  pay  me — of  course." 

Hendrie  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  pay  generous  salaries.  Those  who  receive  my 
salaries  earn  them." 

Monica  laughed.     Slowly  confidence  was  returning. 

"That's  so  like  you,"  she  said.  "I  wonder  if  I  earn  $5000 
a  year.  I  have  often  worked  twice  as  hard  for  half  the  sum." 

"Quite  so.  But  what  was  the  work?  From  my  point  of 
view  you  earn  the  money,  and  perhaps  more,  by  carrying 
the  confidence  I  always  know  I  can  place  in  you.  But,  say, 
don't  let's  discuss  the  economy  of  commerce.  Guess  I  came 
here  on  a  different  errand." 

Monica  averted  her  gaze.  She  looked  out  of  the  window 
she  was  facing. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  return  of  all  her  old 
apprehensions. 

The  man  leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  His  hands  were 
clasped  together,  and  his  forearms  pressed  heavily  on  his 
knees.  There  was  a  faint  flush  on  his  cheeks,  and  the  usual 
contemplative  light  had  passed  from  his  eyes,  leaving  them 
alight  with  a  growing  fire  of  passion. 

"Tell  me,"  he  cried  suddenly,  a  deep  note  in  his  voice. 


106  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me?  Anything  about  our 
talk  the  other  night?" 

Monica  kept  her  eyes  averted.  She  was  summoning  all 
her  courage,  that  she  might  the  more  successfully  bruise  and 
beat  down  her  own  love  for  this  man. 

She  shook  her  head  without  daring  to  face  him.  She 
knew,  she  felt  the  heat  of  passion  shining  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"It — it — can't  be,"  she  said,  stumbling  fatally. 

She  waited,  hardly  knowing  what  to  expect.  As  the  man 
remained  silent  the  beatings  of  her  heart  seemed  to  have 
suddenly  become  so  loud  that  she  thought  he  must  surely 
hear  them;  and  hearing  them,  would  understand  the  cow- 
ardice she  was  laboring  under. 

Had  she  dared  to  look  at  him  she  must  have  seen  the 
marked  change  her  refusal  had  brought  about.  The  same 
passionate  fire  was  in  his  eyes,  there  was  the  same  flush  upon 
his  cheeks.  But  there  was  an  added  something  that  was 
quite  different  from  these  things,  something  which  she 
might  have  recognized,  for  she  had  witnessed  it  many 
times  before  in  her  intercourse  with  him.  It  was  the 
fighting  spirit  of  the  man  slowly  rising,  the  light  of  battle 
gathering. 

He  smiled,  and  his  smile  was  strangely  tender  in  a  man 
of  his  known  character. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked  at  last.  "Is  that  your— final 
word?" 

"Yes,"  she  almost  gasped,  and  desperately  faced  him. 

Then  she  abruptly  rose  from  her  seat  and  moved  toward 
the  window.  She  had  seen  more  in  his  eyes  than  she  could 
face,  and  still  remain  true  to  her  decision. 

"But's— it's  insufficient,  Mon." 

The  man  rose  from  his  chair  and  followed  her.  He  came 
near,  and  stood  close  behind  her.  She  could  feel  his  warm 
breath  on  the  soft  flesh  which  was  left  bare  by  the  low  neck 
of  her  costume.  She  trembled,  and  stood  helplessly  dreading 
lest  he  should  recognize  the  trembling.  Then  she  heard  his 
low  voice  speaking,  and  her  whole  soul  responded  to  the  fire 
that  lay  behind  his  words. 

"I  love  you,  Mon.  I  love  you  so  that  I  cannot,  will  not 
give  you  up.  I  love  you  so  that  all  else  in  my  life  goes  for 
nothing.  All  my  life  I've  reveled  in  the  constant  joy  of 


ALEXANDER    HENDRIE  107 

anticipation  of  the  success  I  have  achieved.  All  my  life  I 
have  centered  my  whole  soul  on  these  things,  and  trained 
brain  and  body  for  a  titanic  struggle  to  the  top  of  the  finan- 
cial ladder.  And  now,  what  is  it,  if — if  I  can't  win  you,  too  ? 
Mon,  it's  simply  nothing.  Can't  you  understand  what  I  feel 
when  I  say  that?  More  than  all  the  wealth  and  position  I've 
dreamed  of  all  my  life  I  want  you — you.  What  is  it  ?  Why  ? 
Tell  me  why  it — can't  be." 

But  Monica  could  not  tell  him.  She  knew  she  could  not; 
and  she  knew  that  she  could  not  go  on  listening  to  the  strong 
man's  pleadings  without  yielding. 

Suddenly,  in  something  like  desperation,  she  turned  and 
faced  him. 

"I  tried  to  make  it  plain  to  you  the  qther  night,"  she  cried, 
with  a  complaint  that  made  her  voice  almost  harsh.  "I  tried 
to  tell  you  then  that  I  could  not  marry  you.  But  you 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.  You  laughed  my  refusal  aside.  You 
told  me  you  would  not  give  me  up.  I  can  only  reiterate  what 
I  tried  to  tell  you  then.  Why — why  urge  me  when  I  say  I — 
I  cannot  marry  you?" 

"Cannot?" 

"Yes — cannot,  cannot !" 

In  desperation  Monica  added  emphasis  to  her  negative. 

"There  can  only  be  one  reason  for  'cannot,'  "  said  Hen- 
drie,  with  an  abrupt  return  to  calmness.  "Are  you  mar- 
ried? Have  you  a  husband  living?" 

The  woman's  denial  flashed  out  without  thought. 

"I  am  not  married.     I  never  have  been  married." 

In  a  moment  she  realized  the  danger  of  so  precipitate  a 
denial.  The  man's  face  lit  more  ardently  than  ever,  and  he 
drew  closer. 

"Then  you  must  take  that  word  back,  and  say  you — 
'will  not.'  But  you  can't  say  that,"  he  smiled  gently.  "Why 
should  you?  Yes,  I  know  you  don't  dislike  me.  You've 
always  seen  me  as  I  am.  I'm  no  different.  Say,  Mon,  I'm 
not  here  to  bully  you  into  marrying  me.  I'm  here  to  plead 
with  you.  I  who  have  never  in  my  life  pleaded  to  man  or 
woman.  I  want  you  to  give  me  that  which  I  know  no  money 
can  ever  buy,  no  position  can  ever  claim.  I  want  your  love. 
I  want  it  because  I  love  you,  and  without  you  nothing  is 
worth  while." 


108  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

He  was  very  near  her  now.  He  was  so  near  that  Monica 
dared  not  move.  She  could  only  stand  helplessly  gazing  out 
of  the  window.  As  she  remained  silent  he  urged  her  again, 
placing  one  powerful  hand  gently  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Tell  me,  do  you  dislike  the  hard,  unscrupulous  financier 
that  men  are  only  too  ready  to  villify?"  he  asked,  with  a 
gentle  smile  of  confidence.  "Do  you?"  His  hand  moved  till 
it  dropped  to  the  woman's  soft,  rounded  upper  arm. 

"Mon,"  he  continued,  "I  want  you  so  much.  Tell  me  you 
don't — dislike  me." 

Monica's  courage  was  swiftly  ebbing.  The  task  she  had 
set  herself  was  too  hard  for  her.  She  was  too  simply  human 
to  withstand  the  approach  of  this  great  love.  The  touch  of 
the  man's  hand,  so  gentle,  so  almost  reverent,  had  sent  the 
blood  coursing  through  her  veins  in  a  hot,  passionate  tide. 
All  her  love  for  him  surged  uppermost,  and  drove  her  head- 
long to  a  reckless  denial. 

"No,"  she  cried,  in  a  low  voice.  "How  could  I  dislike 
you?  What  does  it  matter  to  me  what  men  say  of  you? 
You  have  been  the  essence  of  goodness  to  me — oh !" 

The  exclamation  came  without  fear,  without  resentment. 
It  was  the  suddenness  of  it  all.  In  a  moment  she  lay  crushed 
in  the  man's  powerful  arms ;  his  tall  figure  towered  over  her, 
and  his  plain  face  looked  ardently  down  into  hers  while  he 
poured  out  a  passionate  torrent  of  words  into  her  willing 
ears. 

"Then  I'll  take  no  refusal,"  fye  cried,  with  a  ring  of  tri- 
umph and  joy  in  his  deep  voice.  "Look  up,  Mon,  look  up, 
my  dear,  and  tell  me  that  you  don't  love  me.  Look  up,  and 
tell  me  with  your  eyes  looking  right  into  mine,  and  I'll  be- 
lieve you,  and  let  you  go.  Look  up,  my  darling,  and  tell  me. 
Yrou  can't — you  can't.  Say — it's  useless  to  try.  Quit  it, 
Mon,  quit  it.  You  love  me,  I  know.  I  feel  it  here,  right  here 
in  my  heart,  here,  Mon,  here,"  he  cried  triumphantly. 
"Right  where  your  beautiful  head  is  resting." 

He  moved  one  hand  from  about  her,  and  deliberately 
lifted  her  face  so  that  he  could  gaze  down  upon  the  eyes 
hidden  beneath  the  deeply  fringed  lids. 

"Come,  Mon,"  he  cried  tenderly.  "Speak  up.  Say,  I  can't 
just  hear  you.  I  want  to  hear  you  say  you  don't  love  me, 
you  hate  me  for  this.  No?  Then  you  must  kiss  me." 


ALEXANDER    HENDRIE  109 

He  bent  his  head,  and  drew  her  face  up  to  his.  And  an 
exquisite  joy  flooded  Monica's  heart  as  he  rained  burning 
kisses  upon  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  hair. 

So  they  remained  for  many  minutes.  He,  speaking  words 
which  were  ample  caresses,  she,  listening  like  one  in  a  won- 
derful, heavenly  dream. 

But  at  last  she  stirred  in  his  arms,  and  finally  released 
herself.  Then,  with  flushed  face  and  bowed  head,  she  flung 
herself  upon  the  ottoman  beside  her  with  something  almost 
like  a  sob. 

Hendrie  waited  for  a  moment.  Then  he  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  down,  and  deliberately  removed  the  hands  in  which 
her  face  was  buried. 

"What  is  it,  Mon?"  he  inquired  anxiously,  but  in  his  firm, 
decided  way. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  she  cried,  with  the  desperate  helpless- 
ness of  a  child.  "You — you've  made  me  love  you,  and — and 
it's  all  wrong — all  wrong." 

Hendrie  smiled  confidently. 

"Is  it?  Ah,  well,  you  do  love  me.  That's  all  that  matters 
—really." 

She  stared  at  him  with  suddenly  widening  eyes.  Then 
she,  too,  smiled  a  tender,  shy  smile  that  still  was  full  of 
trouble. 

"I'm  afraid — I  do,"  she  said.  "But  I  didn't  mean  you  to 
know " 

"Afraid?" 

Hendrie's  smile  was  good  to  see.  But  it  passed  quickly, 
and  he  went  on  in  the  manner  of  a  man  always  accustomed 
to  dictate. 

"Now  listen,  Mon.  We  are  going  to  be  married  without 
unnecessary  delay.  How  soon  can  you  be  ready?" 

In  a  moment  Monica  realized  the  utter  folly  of  what  she 
had  done.  In  a  moment  it  swept  over  her,  threatening  and 
almost  paralyzing  her  faculties.  She  paled.  Then  a  deep 
flush  leaped  into  her  cheek,  and,  in  a  fever  of  apprehension, 
she  pleaded  for  a  respite. 

"No,  no,  not  yet,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  energy  which 

quite  startled  her  lover.     "I  cannot  marry  you  until — until 

You  see,"  she  blundered  on,  "there  are  so  many  things. 

I — I  have  responsibilities.     There  ai 


110  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Hendrie  mercifully  broke  in  upon  her,  and  perhaps  saved 
her  from  betraying  in  her  hysterical  apprehension  those  very 
things  she  wished  to  keep  from  him. 

"Don't  be  scared,  Mon,"  he  said  quickly.  "It's  for  you  to 
say.  It's  right  up  to  you.  I  shan't  rush  you.  See.  Think 
it  over.  I've  got  to  go  west  to-morrow.  Guess  I'll  be  away 
a  week.  Say,  this  day  week.  You'll  get  it  all  fixed  by  then. 
I'll  get  right  back  and  you  can  tell  me  when  you'll  marry  me. 
You  see,  I  just  want  you — whenever  you're  ready." 

It  was  impossible  to  withstand  him,  and,  in  desperation, 
Monica  realized  that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  pit  her  rea- 
son against  a  love  she  desired  more  than  all  the  world.  She 
felt  utterly  helpless,  like  one  swept  off  her  feet  by  an  irre- 
sistible tide.  There  was  a  recklessness,  too,  in  her  blood  now, 
a  recklessness  flowing  hotly  through  veins  which  for  so  long 
had  been  left  unstirred  in  their  perfect  calm,  and  somehow 
the  joy  of  it  had  intoxicated  her  reason  and  left  her  unable 
to  adequately  control  it. 

Later  it  would  be  different.  When  he  had  gone  she  would 
be  able  to  think  soberly,  and  she  knew  she  would  have  to 
think  hard  to  repair  the  damage  of  these  moments.  She 
would  wait  till  then  when  the  toll  was  demanded  of  her,  and 
now — now?  These  moments  were  too  sweetly  precious  to 
deny.  She  would  not,  she  could  not  deny  them.  So,  while 
she  knew  that  every  fraction  of  the  penalty  would  be  de- 
manded of  her  later,  she  thanked  her  God  for  this  love  that 
had  come  to  her,  and  abandoned  herself  to  its  delight. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   PENALTY 

IT  was  a  changed  woman  who  restlessly  paced  the  narrow 
limits  of  her  sitting-room  four  days  later.  Monica  was 
awaiting  another  visitor ;  again  she  was  awaiting  the  ominous 
clang  of  the  bell  at  the  front  door.  But  her  feelings  were 
very  different  now.  The  timid  shrinking,  the  mere  thrill  of 
troubled  apprehension  with  which  she  had  awaited  the  coming 
of  the  man  who  had  changed  all  those  things  into  a  wild, 
reckless  joy,  was  nothing  to  the  desperation  with  which  she 
contemplated  the  coming  visit.  She  knew  that  the  penalty 


THE    PENALTY  111 

was  about  to  be  exacted,  the  toll,  for  the  stolen  moments 
when  she  had  permitted  the  woman  in  her  to  taste  of  the 
sweets  which  surely  she  had  a  right  to. 

The  sober  moments  she  had  anticipated  had  come;  oh, 
yes,  they  had  come  as  she  knew  they  inevitably  must  come. 
She  had  faced  the  consequences  of  the  weakness  she  believed 
herself  to  have  displayed  in  all  their  nakedness,  and  she  saw 
before  her  such  a  tangle,  the  contemplation  of  which  had  set 
her  head  whirling,  and  filled  her  heart  with  despair. 

She  was  torn  between  her  loyalty  to  the  living,  and  her 
duty  to  the  dead.  She  was  torn  between  that  which  she 
knew  she  owed  to  herself,  and  all  those  other  obligations 
which  could  be  summed  up  as  part  of  the  strong  moral  side 
of  her  nature.  She  was  seeking  a  central  path  which  might 
satisfy  in  some  degree  each  of  the  opposing  claims.  She  was 
committing  that  fatal  mistake  of  seeking  the  easiest  road, 
with  the  full  knowledge  that  it  was  a  mistake.  She  had 
tasted  life,  and  now  she  was  powerless  to  continue  the  sacrifice 
she  had  for  such  long  years  marked  out  for  herself. 

The  habit  of  years  was  strong  upon  her.  There  was 
something  almost  superstitious  in  the  way  she  clung  to  the 
promise  she  had  so  rashly  given  her  sister.  She  could  no 
more  outrage  that  than  she  could  deny  the  love  that  had 
come  to  her  so  late.  Therefore  she  saw  nothing  but  that 
perilous  middle  course  open  before  her. 

She  had  sent  for  her  boy,  the  man — yes,  he  was  a  man 
now — whom  she  had  been  at  such  pains  to  bring  up  with 
lofty  aspirations,  and  a  fine  sense  of  love,  and  honor,  and 
duty.  She  told  herself  she  was  going  to  lie  to  him,  lie  to 
him  with  all  the  heartless  selfishness  of  an  utterly  weak  and 
worthless  woman.  She  tried  to  smother  her  conscience  by 
reminding  herself  that  she  had  always  seen  the  necessity  of 
ultimately  lying  to  him,  and  now  only  the  motive  of  the  lies 
was  changed.  She  told  herself  these  things,  but  she  did  not 
convince  herself.  She  knew  that  originally  her  contemplated 
lies  were  that  he  might  be  kept  from  the  knowing  of  his 
mother's  shame,  and  as  such  might  even  have  found  justifica- 
tion in  the  eyes  of  the  Recording  Angel.  Now  it  was  differ- 
ent; their  motive  was  purely  one  of  self,  and  for  such  there 
could  be  no  justification. 

So  she  was  desperate.     All  that  was  best  in  her  was  war- 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

ring  with  the  baser  human  side  of  a  really  fine  nature.  She 
suffered  agonies  of  torture  while  she  waited  for  the  coining 
of  the  man  who  would  gaze  at  her  with  wide,  frank,  trusting 
eyes,  while  she  lied  something  of  his  simple  faith  and  youth- 
ful happiness  away. 

Was  there  wonder  that  she  dreaded  his  coming?  Could 
it  be  otherwise?  She  could  see  no  other  course  than  the  one 
she  had  decided  upon.  She  was  blinded  by  her  newly  found 
love  for  the  man,  Hendrie ;  she  was  blinded  by  her  promise  to 
a  dead  woman.  Frank  must  be  persuaded  into  the  back- 
ground. He  must  remain  hidden,  lest  the  breath  of  scandal 
reach  Hendrie,  and  she  be  robbed  of  the  happiness  she  so 
yearned  for.  He  must  be  made  the  sacrifice  for  her  selfish 
desires. 

In  the  midst  of  her  desperate  thought,  the  signal  rang  out 
through  the  apartments.  Oh,  that  bell;  how  she  hated  its 
brazen  note.  But  now  that  the  moment  of  her  trial  had 
come  there  was  no  shrinking,  no  hesitation.  She  passed 
swiftly  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and,  in  a  moment,  was  en- 
gulfed in  a  bear-like  embrace  by  a  great,  fair-haired 
young  giant  who,  tall  as  Monica  was,  quite  towered  over 
her. 

"Why,  mother,"  he  cried,  as  he  finally  released  her,  "I 
never  had  such  a  rush  to  get  here  so  soon.  Guess  your  wire 
set  me  on  the  dead  jump.  I  drove  twenty-five  miles  to  the 
depot  in  under  three  hours,  to  catch  the  east-bound  mail,  and 
nearly  foundered  old  Bernard's  best  team.  But  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  to " 

Monica's  eyes  shone  with  admiration  and  love. 

"That's  so  like  you,  Frank,  dear,"  she  cried.  "Come  right 
in  and  sit  down.  You're  such  an  impulsive  boy.  But  I'm 
glad  you've  come — so  glad." 

The  delight  at  the  sight  of  her  beloved  boy  had  almost 
died  out  of  Monica's  eyes  as  she  finished  speaking.  It  had  all 
come  back  to  her — the  meaning  of  his  visit. 

Frank  flung  himself  into  the  same  rocking  chair  in  which 
Alexander  Hendrie  had  sat,  and  gazed  up  at  the  beautiful 
woman  he  called  "mother"  with  a  radiant  smile  on  his 
handsome,  ingenuous  face. 

"Gee,  I'm  tired,"  he  exclaimed.  "Two  nights  and  a  day 
in  the  train.  I  didn't  come  sleeper.  I  didn't  want  to  rush 


THE    PENALTY  113 

you  too  much.  So  I  just  dozed  in  the  ordinary  car  where 
I  sat." 

In  spite  of  everything  Monica's  delight  in  this  fatherless 
boy  was  wonderful.  All  her  love  was  shining  in  her  eyes 
again  as  she  exclaimed — 

"Oh,  Frank!  You  didn't  come  sleeper?  Why  not?  You 
shouldn't  have  considered  the  expense." 

The  boy  laughed  joyously. 

"That's  so  like  you,  Mon,  dear,"  he  promptly  retorted. 
He  always  called  her  "Moil"  in  his  playful  moods,  declaring 
that  she  was  far  too  young  and  pretty  to  be  called  "mother." 
"You  really  are  an  extravagant  woman  to  have  a  growing 
and  expensive  family." 

"Growing?"  Monica  laughed  happily.  "I  hope  not. 
Goodness !  You  always  find  it  more  convenient  to  sit  down 
when  you're  talking  to  me." 

The  boy  nodded. 

"That's  because  I'm  tired — and  hungry,"  he  said  lightly. 
"You  see  I  haven't  eaten  since  breakfast.  Got  any  lunch?" 

"Lunch?  Of  course.  Oh,  Frank,  really  you're  not  to  be 
trusted  looking  after  yourself.  Of  course  I've  a  lunch  ready 
for  you.  It's  just  cold.  I  don't  trust  the  janitor's  cooking 
except  for  breakfast." 

"Bully !    I  know  your  lunches.     Come  along." 

The  boy  sprang  from  his  seat,  and,  seizing  Monica  about 
the  waist,  was  for  rushing  her  off  to  the  dining-room. 

Monica  abandoned  herself  to  the  delights  of  the  moment. 
The  boy  could  not  have  been  more  to  her  if  he  had  really 
been  her  son.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  a  maternal  adoration. 
He  was  so  tall,  she  thought;  and  his  bright,  shrewd,  good- 
natured  blue  eyes  full  of  half-smiling  seriousness.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  face  on  a  boy  ?  How  handsome  he  was  with 
his  finely  cut,  regular  features,  his  abundant  fair  hair,  which, 
since  he  had  been  on  the  farm,  had  been  allowed  to  run  riot. 
And  then  his  hugely  muscular  body.  Eighteen!  Only 
eighteen!  Little  wonder,  she  thought,  this  Phyllis  Raysun 
was  ready  to  dance  so  often  with  him. 

"You're  much  too  boisterous,"  she  chided  him,  smiling 
happily. 

"Never  mind,  Mon,"  he  cried,  "take  me  to  the  ban 

Oh,  I  forgot.     Your  wire  was  'rushed.'     You  wanted  to  see 
9 


114  .THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

me  at  once.  That's  why  I  nearly  killed  Bernard's  team. 
There's — there's  nothing  wrong,  is  there?" 

The  blue  eyes  were  serious  enough  now.  He  had  come  to 
a  standstill,  with  his  arms  still  about  Monica's  waist,  half 
way  across  the  room. 

But  now  it  was  Monica's  turn  to  urge.  All  the  joy  had 
gone  out  of  her  eyes.  He  had  reminded  her  of  the  tissue  of 
falsehood  she  had  prepared  for  him.  No,  no,  she  could  not 
tell  him  yet,  and,  with  all  a  coward's  procrastination,  she 
put  him  off. 

"I'll — I'll  tell  you  about  it  when  you've  eaten,"  she  said 
hastily.  "We've — we've  got  to  have  a  serious  talk.  But 
not — now.  Afterwards." 

Frank  gave  her  a  quick,  sidelong  glance. 

"Righto,"  he  said  simply.  But  a  shadow  had  somehow 
crept  into  his  eyes.  So  deep  was  the  sympathy  between 
these  two  that  he  promptly  read  something  of  the  trouble 
underlying  her  manner. 

Frank  was  seated  on  the  lounge  beside  the  window.  His 
attitude  was  one  of  tense,  hard  feeling.  His  blue  eyes  were 
full  of  bitterness  as  they  stared  out  at  the  coppery  sheen  of 
the  telegraph  wires,  which  caught  the  winter  sunlight,  just 
outside  the  sitting-room  window. 

Monica  had  just  finished  speaking.  For  some  minutes 
the  low  pleading  of  her  voice  had  reached  him  across  the 
room.  She  was  as  far  from  him  as  the  limits  of  the  room 
would  permit.  Such  was  her  repulsion  at  the  lies  she  had  to 
tell  him  that  she  felt  the  distance  between  them  could  not  be 
too  wide. 

Her  story  was  told.  She  had  branded  herself  with  her 
sister's  shame.  The  curious  twist  of  her  mind  held  her  to 
her  promise,  even  to  this  extent.  Now  she  waited  with 
bowed  head  for  the  judgment  of  this  youth  of  eighteen  who 
had  been  taught  to  call  her  "mother."  And  as  she  sat  there 
waiting  she  felt  that  her  whole  life,  her  whole  being  was  made 
up  of  degraded  falsehood. 

The  story  was  as  complete  as  she  could  make  it.  The 
work  was  done.  Her  sister's  name,  and  ill-fame,  had  been 
kept  from  her  son. 

As  the  moments  passed  and  no  word  came  in  answer, 


THE    PENALTY  115 

Monica's  apprehension  grew,  and  she  urged  him.     She  could 
face  his  utmost  scorn  better  than  this  suspense. 

"That  is  all,  Frank,"  she  said,  with  a  dignity  she  was 
wholly  unaware  of. 

The  man  stirred.  He  stretched  out  his  great  limbs  upon 
the  couch  and  drew  them  up  again.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes 
upon  the  waiting  woman.  They  were  unsmiling,  but  they 
had  no  condemnation  in  them.  He  had  fought  out  his  little 
battle  with  himself. 

"So  I  am  a — bastard,"  he  said,  slowly  and  distinctly. 
"Frank;  oh,  Frank!     Not  that  word." 

The  boy  laughed,  but  without  any  mirth. 

"Why  not?  Why  be  afraid  of  the  truth?  Besides,  I  have 
always  known — at  least  suspected  it." 

Monica  suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  He  had 
known.  He  had  suspected.  And  all  these  years  she  had 
endeavored  to  keep  the  secret  from  him.  The  thought  of  it 
all  hurt  her  as  much  as  if  the  shame  of  it  were  really  hers. 

Presently  he  left  his  seat  and  came  to  her  side. 
"Don't  worry,  mother,  dear,"  he  said,  with  one  hand  ten- 
derly laid  upon  her  shoulder.  "You  see,  we  never  talked 
much  of  my  father.  You  were  never  easy  when  you  spoke  of 
him.  I  guessed  there  was  something  wrong ;  and  being  young, 
and  perhaps  imaginative,  I  found  the  truth  without  much 
guessing.  Still  I  didn't  ask  questions.  It  was  not  up  to  me 
to  hurt  you.  What  was  the  use.  I  knew  I  should  hear  some 
day,  and  quite  made  up  my  mind  how  to  act."  He  smiled. 
"You  see,  if  you  told  me  I  knew  I  could  bear  it  almost — 
easily.  I  should  have  far  less  to  bear  than  you  who  told  it, 
and — and  that  showed  me  how  small  a  thing  it  was  for  me — 
by  comparison.  If  it  came  through  other  sources  I  should 
have  acted  differently,  particularly  if  the  telling  of  it  came 
from — a  man." 

He  paused,  and  Monica  looked  up  at  him  with  wondering 
admiration. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  mother,"  he  hurried  on,  blushing  pain- 
fully with  self-consciousness,  "that  only  a  great  and  brave 
woman  could  have  told  her  son — what  you  have  told  me.  And 
— and  I  honor  you  for  it.  I  want  to  tell  you  it's  not 
going  to  make  any  difference  between  us,  unless  it  is  to 
increase  my — my  love.  As  for  me— I  don't  see  that  it's 


116  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

going  to  give  me  sleepless  nights,  so — so  just  let's  for- 
get it." 

Frank's  manner  became  hurried  and  ashamed  as  he  fin- 
ished up.  It  seemed  absurd  to  him  that  he  should  be  saying 
such  things  to  his  mother.  Yet  he  wanted  to  say  them.  He 
intended  to  say  them.  So  he  blundered  as  quickly  and 
shamefacedly  through  them  as  he  could. 

To  his  enormous  relief  Monica  sighed  as  though  the  worst 
were  over.  But  her  sigh  was  at  the  wonderful  magnanimity 
of  this  huge  boy.  He  started  to  return  to  the  lounge.  Half 
way  across  the  room  he  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  a  look  of 
perplexity  drew  his  brows  together.  In  his  anxiety  for  his 
mother  he  had  forgotten.  Now  he  remembered.  Suddenly 
he  turned  back. 

"You  didn't  send  for  me  so  urgently  to  tell  me  this?"  he 
demanded.  "This  would  have  kept." 

Monica  shook  her  head  decidedly.  She  caught  a  sharp 
breath. 

"It  would  not  have  kept.    It — it  had  to  be  told — now." 

"Now?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  am  going  to  be — married." 

"Mother!" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  man's  dismay.  He  stood 
there  hardly  daring  to  believe  his  senses.  His  mother  was 
going  to  be  married  after — after 

"But,  mother,  you  don't  mean  that?  You're  not  serious," 
he  cried,  his  ingenious  face  flushed,  his  whole  look  incredu- 
lous. 

Something  of  the  woman's  resentment  against  the  un- 
worthy part  that  had  been  forced  upon  her  suddenly  found 
expression. 

"Yes,  I  mean  it,"  she  cried  sharply.  "Of  course  I  mean  it. 
I  am  in  no  mood  to  trifle.  Why  else  should  I  have  sent  for 
you  now  to  tell  you  the  miserable  story  you  have  just  listened 
to,  unless  it  were  that  my  coming  marriage  made  it  impera- 
tive?" 

The  flush  deepened  upon  the  man's  face. 

"But  you  can't,"  he  cried,  with  sudden  vehemence.  "You 
daren't !  Oh,  mother,  you  must  be  mad  to  think  of  marriage 


THE    PENALTY 

now — I  mean  with — with  my  existence  to  be  accounted  for." 

"That's  just  why  I  have  sent  for  you." 

Monica  sprang  from  her  seat  and  ran  to  him.  She  reached 
up,  and  placed  both  hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  gazed 
pleadingly  into  his  face. 

"Don't  fail  me,  Frank.  Don't  fail  me,"  she  cried,  all  her 
woman's  heart  stirred  to  a  dreadful  fear  lest,  after  all,  she 
should  lose  the  happiness  she  was  striving  for,  had  lied  for, 
was  ready  to  do  almost  anything  for.  "You  don't  know 
what  it  means  to  me.  How  can  you?  You  are  only  a  boy. 
It  means  everything.  Yes,  it  means  my  life.  Oh,  Frank, 
think  of  all  the  years  I  have  gone  through  without  a  home, 
without  any  of  those  things  which  a  woman  has  a  right  to*, 
except  what  I  have  earned  for  myself  with  my  own  two  hands. 
Think  of  the  loveless  life  I  have  been  forced  to  live  for  all 
these  years.  Frank,  Frank,  I  have  given  up  everything  in 
the  world  for  you,  and  now — now  I  love  this  man — I  love  him 
with  my  whole  soul." 

Her  head  was  bowed,  and  the  agitated  boy  led  her  back 
to  her  seat.  He  was  beginning  to  understand  things.  His 
honest  eyes  were  beginning  to  look  life  in  the  face,  and  to  see 
there  phases  quite  undreamed  of  in  his  youthful  mind. 

"I  think  I  am  beginning  to  understand,  mother,"  he  said 
simply.  "Tell  me  more.  Tell  me  what  you  want  of  me.  I — 
you  see,  all  this  is  a  bit  of  a  shock.  I  don't  seem  to  know 
where  I  am.  Who  is  the  man?" 

"Alexander  Hendrie." 

"Hendrie?  The  man  you  work  for?  The  man  who  owns 
all  those  miles  of  wheat  up  our  way?  The  millionaire?" 

Frank's  eyes  shone  with  a  sudden  enthusiasm  as  he  de- 
tailed the  achievements  of  the  wheat  king.  For  the  moment 
he  had  forgotten  the  reason  of  the  mention  of  his  name. 

"Yes,  yes."  Something  of  his  enthusiasm  found  an  echo  in 
Monica.  "Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  Can  you 
wonder  that  I  love  him?  Such  a  king  among  men.  All  my 
life  I  have  longed  for  achievement  in  the  commercial  world. 
To  me  it  is  all  that  is  worth  while.  This  man  has  it.  He  is  it. 
I  have  been  his  chief  secretary  for  two  years.  I  have  had  a 
most  intimate  knowledge  of  all  his  affairs,  of  the  man.  I 
have  helped  in  my  little  way  toward  his  success.  I  love  this 
man,  and  he  loves  me.  He  will  not  hear  of  my  refusing  him. 


118  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

I  intended  to  because  of  you,  but — but  he  is  too  strong  for 
me.  He  has  bent  my  will  to  his,  and  I — I  have  yielded.  Nor 
was  it  all  unwillingly.  Oh,  no.  I  was  ready  enough  to  yield 
in  spite  of " 

"Does — he  know  of  my  existence?"  Frank  demanded.  His 
eyes  were  bright  with  alertness. 

Monica's  eyes  widened. 

"Of  course  not !  If  he  knew  of  you  my  poor  dream  would 
be  shattered  for  ever.  That  is  the  terrible  part.  That  is 
why — why  I  have  had  to  tell  you  everything." 

"I  see." 

The  man  flung  himself  on  the  couch  and  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  head.  He  was  thinking  hard.  Bit  by  bit  all  that 
was  in  his  mother's  mind  was  coining  to  him.  He  let  her  go 
on  talking  while  he  readjusted  his  new  focus. 

"Listen  to  me.  Let  us  look  at  this  thing  from  your  point 
of  view.  You  know  all  we  have  striven  for  in  setting  you  up 
in  life.  We  have  been  scraping  and  saving  that  you  should 
be  properly  equipped.  Now  we  are  saving  to  buy  you  an 
adequate  farm.  You  have  got  to  do  big  things  with  that 
farm.  You  must  go  further  than  merely  making  a  living, 
and  marry,  and  bring  up  a  large  family.  You  must  rise. 
You  must  become  a  wheat  king,  too.  If  I  marry  Alexander 
think  of  what  it  will  mean  to  you.  I  shall  be  able  to  do  these 
things  for  you  almost  at  once.  You  shall  start  on  the  best 
farm  money  can  buy.  There  will  be  no  stinting.  You  can 
have  everything.  And  you  will  rise  as  I  want  you  to;  as 
you  want  to.  YOUJ  too,  will  become  a  power  in  the  wonderful, 
wonderful  field  of  commerce.  Oh,  when  I  think  of  it  it  makes 
me  desperate  at  the  thought  of  losing  it  all." 

Frank  remained  lost  in  thought  for  some  moments  longer. 
Then  he  suddenly  looked  up  as  though  he  had  come  to  a 
final  decision. 

"Look  here,  mother.  I  suppose  I  haven't  had  experience 
enough  to  grasp  the  moral  side  of  this  thing.  I — I  suppose 
there  is  a  moral  side  to  it,"  he  said,  with  something  almost 
like  helplessness.  "But  it  seems  to  me  that — that  Hendrie's 
eyes  must  never  light  on  me,  as — as  any  relation  of  yours. 
Is  that  it?  You  want  me  to  know  just  how  the  position 
stands,  and  then  hustle  into  the  background,  into  my  hole, 
like — like  any  gopher." 


THE    PENALTY  119 

Monica  sighed.  The  ready  understanding  of  the  boy  was 
saving  her  worlds  of  painful  explanation. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  what  it  comes  to,  Frank,  though  it 
sounds  dreadful  put  that  way.  It  sounds  as  if  we  were  con- 
spirators scheming  to  get  the  better  of  Alexander.  Yes,  it 
sounds  awful.  And  yet — 

Frank  gave  the  first  sign  of  impatience. 

"Does  it  matter  what  it  sounds  like?  I  don't  think  so,"  he 
said  sharply.  "You  love  this  man,  mother,  and  you  want  to 
marry  him.  Very  well,  marry  him.  I  will  never  jeopardize 
your  happiness.  It  is  small  enough  return  for  all  the  sacri- 
fices you  have  made  for  me.  I  promise  you  Hendrie  shall 
never  know  you  are  my  mother.  I  promise  you  never  to 
come  near " 

"No,  no,  Frank.  I  don't  want  that,"  Monica  cried  des- 
perately. "I  could  not  bear  that.  I  must  see  you  sometimes, 
and  later,  when — when  things  have  settled  down " 

Frank  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  taking  a  grave  risk,  mother,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"Far  better  let  me  pass  out  of  your  life — altogether." 

"No,  no  !  I  would  rather  never  marry  than  that.  Promise 
me  that  you  will  come  and  see  me,  and  I  will  see  you  when- 
ever opportunity  offers.  Promise  me,  or " 

"All  right,  mother,"  replied  the  man,  with  his  gentle,  af- 
fectionate smile.  "You  go  ahead.  You  can  always  rely  on 
me  for  anything.  And  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  your 
husband  shall  never  know  that  I  am  your  son." 

That  night  Frank  Burton  leaned  back  in  the  upholstered 
seat  of  the  ordinary  car  on  the  west-bound  train.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  read  the  Winnipeg  Free  Press  which  lay  open 
on  his  lap.  He  was  busy  forming  conclusions.  One  of  them 
was  that  life  was  by  no  means  the  simple  affair  it  had  seemed 
to  him  two  days  ago. 

But  he  came  to  a  more  important  conclusion  than  that. 
He  tried  to  view  things  from  his  mother's  standpoint,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  her  feelings,  and,  while  he  deplored  the 
gravity  of  the  risk  she,  as  a  woman,  was  taking,  he  acknowl- 
edged that  he  would  have  done  the  same  himself. 

He  thought  of  Phyllis  Raysun — his  Phyllis — and  went  hot 
and  cold  as  he  tried  to  picture  what  his  life  would  be  if  he 


120  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

were  never  to  see  her  again.  He  knew,  in  the  recklessness  of 
his  youthful  courage,  he  would  take  any  risk  rather  than 
lose  her. 

Yes,  love  was  a  great  and  wonderful  thing.  He  had  just 
made  the  discovery.  His  interview  with  his  mother  had 
opened  his  eyes  to  the  state  of  his  own  feelings.  Love? 
Why  it  was  more  than  worth  any  risk.  To  him,  in  the  first 
flush  of  his  eighteen  years,  it  was  the  very  essence  of  life. 
It  was  all  that  really  mattered.  And  he  almost  laughed  when 
he  thought  of  the  shock  he  had  experienced  when  he  had  been 
deliberately  told  he  was  a — bastard. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BLINDING  FIRES 

HENDRIE  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  burnished  rail  of  the 
anthracite  stove  which  augmented  the  heating  apparatus  of 
Monica's  sitting-room.  He  was  smoking  a  cigarette  in  the 
pensive  manner  of  a  perfectly  contented  man.  His  eyes  idly 
wandered  over  the  simple  but  dainty  furnishing  of  the  room, 
while  his  mind,  that  wonderful  mechanism  with  which  he  had 
carved  his  way  to  a  mighty  fortune,  was  busy  dreaming 
dreams  of  the  future,  which,  for  once,  contained  no  thoughts 
associated  with  the  amassing  of  his  immense  wealth. 

He  was  contemplating  rather  the  spending  of  money  than 
the  making  of  it.  He  was  thinking  pleasantly  of  those  con- 
tracts which  he  had  already  given  out  for  the  colossal  altera- 
tions which  were  being  made  in  the  mansion  he  owned  out 
West,  upon  his  wheat  lands.  He  was  thinking  of  the  palatial 
residence  which  he  had  just  purchased  here,  in  Winnipeg, 
and  of  the  wonderful  decorations  that  he  had  already  ar- 
ranged should  be  executed  by  the  finest  decorators  in  New 
York. 

He  intended  that  nothing  should  lack  for  the  delight  and 
luxury  of  his  bride.  His  whole  being  was  permeated  with  a 
passion  such  as  he  had  never  believed  himself  capable  of. 
And,  for  the  moment,  he  was  tasting  the  ripe  delights  of 
a  wonderfully  successful  career.  He  loved  more  madly 
than  any  youthful  lover;  he  loved  for  the  first  time  in 
his  strenuous  life,  and  the  exquisite  joy  of  being  able  to 


THE    BLINDING    FIRES  121 

give    out    of    his    overflowing1    storehouses    intoxicated   him. 

He  was  a  fine-looking  figure  as  he  stood  there  in  his  per- 
fectly fitting  evening  clothes.  His  spare  frame  suited  the 
refreshing  smartness  of  such  a  costume,  which  softened  the 
harsher  lines  of  his  build,  and  even  seemed  to  add  to  the 
fascination  of  his  rugged  features. 

He  was  awaiting  Monica's  pleasure  while  she  arrayed  her- 
self in  the  adjoining  room.  Nor  did  he  display  the  least  im- 
patience. He  was  rather  enjoying  the  delay  than  otherwise. 
It  afforded  him  those  moments  of  delightful  anticipation 
which  rarely  enough  find  their  equal  in  realization.  He 
watched  her  beautiful  personality  moving  through  luxuri- 
ously conceived  pictures  of  their  future  life  together.  He 
saw  her  the  head  of  his  princely  establishments,  the  woman 
of  gracious  presence  and  perfect  form,  a  dazzling  jewel  in  the 
crown  of  social  success  he  intended  eventually  to  wear.  Nor 
were  these  dreams  the  outcome  of  mere  selfish  vanity.  It 
pleased  him  to  think  that  she  was  to  become  that  perfect 
pivot  upon  which  his  life  should  revolve.  He  knew  she  was  a 
good  woman,  a  phrase  he  used  only  in  the  loftiest  sense.  He 
felt  that  to  serve  her,  to  minister  to  her  happiness,  was  a 
wonderful  delight  and  privilege,  and  that,  in  living  for  it,  he 
had  not  lived  in  vain. 

No,  he  was  not  impatient.  There  was  no  reason  for  im- 
patience, even  in  face  of  that  truly  feminine  delay  to  which 
Monica  was  treating  him.  He  had  come  for  the  verdict  she 
had  promised  him,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  to  be  favorable  to 
his  desires.  So  he  had  made  his  arrangements  with  the  deci- 
sion of  a  man  who  is  unaccustomed  to  denial.  They  would 
dine  out  together,  and  afterward  spend  the  evening  at  the 
theater. 

He  threw  his  cigarette  end  into  the  stove.  He  was  about 
to  light  a  fresh  one  when  a  sound  caught  his  ear.  He  sud- 
denly dashed  the  unlighted  cigarette  after  the  other,  and 
stood  erect,  waiting.  Yes,  the  soft  rustle  of  skirts  moving 
toward  the  dividing  doors  was  unmistakable.  Monica  had 
completed  her  toilet,  and  was  coming  to  him. 

A  frank  delight  shone  in  his  steady  eyes  as  they  turned  to 
the  folding  doors.  His  lips  were  parted  in  a  smile.  Such 
was  the  ecstasy  of  his  feelings  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
earth,  the  whole  universe  were  acclaiming  his.  happiness. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Her  hand  was  upon  the  door  handle.  He  strode  hastily  to 
her  assistance,  and  flung  the  doors  wide.  Nor  was  his  action 
one  of  mere  conventional  politeness.  It  was  the  impulse  of 
one  who  felt  that  the  future  could  hold  no  happier  service 
than  the  care  of  this  woman's  well-being. 

Monica  was  in  full  evening  dress,  an  exquisite  picture  of 
perfect  womanhood.  From  the  crown  of  her  beautiful  head, 
with  its  wonderful  halo  of  soft,  waving  fair  hair,  to  the 
soles  of  her  satin  slippers  there  was  not  a  detail  in  her  figure 
or  gown  that  could  offend.  In  Hendrie's  eyes  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  comparable  with  her. 

Her  eyes  shone  with  suppressed  excitement,  and  her  usu- 
ally delicately  tinted  cheeks  were  a  trifle  pale.  Her  bosom,  so 
deliciously  rounded,  rose  and  fell  a  shade  more  rapidly  than 
usual  with  the  emotions  of  the  moment,  but  these  were  the 
only  outward  signs  she  gave  of  the  great  love  stirring  her 
woman's  heart. 

Hendrie  stepped  forward. 

"Mon!" 

In  a  moment  she  lay  panting  in  his  arms,  and  his  kisses 
melted  the  pallor  of  her  cheek. 

"Mine!  Mine!"  he  cried,  with  a  deep  note  of  emotion  in 
his  voice.  "Mine  for  ever!"  he  went  on,  his  powerful  arms 
crushing  her  yielding  body  to  him. 

There  was  no  verbal  answer.  Monica  remained  passive. 
The  joy  of  those  protecting  arms  had  left  her  speechless. 
But  her  warm  lips  were  nevertheless  eloquent,  and  he  was 
satisfied. 

After  a  few  delirious  moments  his  embrace  relaxed.  Quite 
abruptly  his  hands  unclasped  about  her.  He  raised  them 
to  the  warm  flesh  of  her  shoulders,  and,  gently  grasping 
them,  held  her  at  arms'  length  from  him. 

His  head  was  bent  forward,  and  his  passionate  eyes 
searched  her  face,  but  they  could  not  penetrate  the  fringed 
lids  which  were  lowered  before  her  eyes  lest  he  should  see  too 
deeply  into  the  secrets  of  her  woman's  soul. 

"Mon,  my  Mon,"  he  cried,  in  a  low  voice.       "Look  up. 

Look  up  into  my  eyes  and  tell  me.    Look  up,  and  tell  me  you 

—love  me,  with  all  your  soul.     Look  up,  and  tell  me  that 

you'll  give  up  all  the  world — everything — for  me.     I  can't 

do  with  less,"  he  went  on  hotly.    "If  you  could  only  see  into 


THE    BLINDING    FIRES 

my  heart  you'd  understand.  But  you  can't.  There's  nothing 
and  no  one  in  the  world  for  me  but  you,  and  I  want  you — 
all.  D'you  understand,  Mon?  I  want  no  less,  and  you  must 
tell  me  now — now — that  this  is  your  love  for  me,  as  it  is  mine 
for  you." 

He  paused,  waiting  for  his  answer,  but  remained  gazing 
with  devouring  eyes  upon  the  beauty  that  so  ravished  his 
senses.  At  last  the  eyelids  slowly  lifted.  The  doors  of  the 
woman's  soul  were  opened,  and  he  gazed  within.  And  while 
he  gazed  her  opening  lips  thrilled  him  as  his  ears  drank  in  the 
answer  that  came  from  them. 

"I  love  you,  dear,"  she  murmured,  with  a  softness  inde- 
scribable. "I  love  you — best  in  all  the  world." 

Then  a  shy  smile  lit  her  fair  face,  and  she  clung  to  him, 
hiding  it  against  his  breast. 

"Best  in  all  the  world,"  he  repeated  ardently.  "Mon,  it's 
good  to  hear.  So  good.  Say,  and  you're  my  best  in  all  the 
world.  You  always  will  be.  You  are  before  all  things  in 
my  life." 

Then  came  long,  silent  moments,  moments  in  which  heart 
beat  to  heart  and  no  spoken  word  but  must  have  robbed 
them  of  something  of  their  rapture.  They  were  moments 
never  to  come  again  as  long  as  both  might  live.  With  all  the 
strength  of  mature  years  they  loved  for  the  first  time,  and 
the  ripeness  of  imagination  swept  them  with  a  perfect  storm 
of  delirious  joy.  They  were  moments  when  soul  is  laid  bare 
to  soul,  and  every  nerve  and  sense  is  tuned  in  perfect  sym- 
pathy. They  were  moments  when  the  glad  outpourings  of 
two  hearts  mingled  in  a  common  flood  which  swept  unchecked, 
unguided,  speeding  on  to  that  far  dreamland  of  perfect  bliss. 

Such  moments  are  mercifully  brief,  or  the  balance  of  mind 
would  soon  stand  in  mortal  jeopardy.  So  it  came  that  later 
on  the  harmonious  flood,  speeding  distantly  from  its  source, 
lessened  its  frantic  speed,  and  gently  fell  to  a  stream  of  calm 
delight. 

They  sat  together  talking,  talking  joyously  of  all  those 
things  which  concerned  the  merging  of  their  two  lives.  For 
Monica  all  her  troubles,  all  her  self-inflicted  tortures  were 
past  and  done  with.  There  were  no  shadows.  There  was 
nothing  on  the  horizon  of  her  life  to  mar  the  sheen  of  a  per- 
fect, sunlit  sky. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

For  the  man  those  moments  meant  the  crowning  of  his 
life's  ambitions,  the  crowning  of  all  that  was  best  in  him. 
He  asked  no  more  of  the  gods  of  fortune.  So  the  tension  of 
the  force  which  always  spurred  him  was  relaxed,  and,  for  the 
time,  at  least,  he  lay  supine  in  the  arms  of  his  own  dreaming 
senses,  basking  in  the  realms  of  Love's  pleasant  sunlight. 

Then  the  spell  was  finally  broken.  Sanity  was  reawakened 
by  the  ticking  clock,  which  stood  among  the  trifling  orna- 
ments upon  Monica's  desk.  The  man  became  aware  of  its 
hands.  The  irresistible  march  of  time  would  not  be  denied. 
He  nodded  at  the  accusing  face  without  any  enthusiasm. 

"It's  nearly  seven,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Shall  we  go, 
or  shall  we ?" 

His  voice  was  caressing,  and  its  caress  was  hard  for  the 
woman  to  resist.  She  knew  that  it  was  only  for  her  to-  shake 
her  head,  and  these  moments  of  delight  would  be  prolonged 
indefinitely. 

The  temptation  was  great.  Then,  with  all  a  loving 
woman's  understanding  of  such  things,  she  decided  that  the 
sparing  of  such  moments  would  keep  the  store  longer. 

"We'd  better  go,"  she  said  decidedly.  Then  she  deferred 
to  him.  "Don't  you  think  so?" 

Hendrie  smiled  happily.  It  was  a  new  pleasure  to  find 
himself  obedient  to  another's  whim. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  promptly  acquiescing.  "You  run  along  and 
get  your  wraps,  while  I  go  and  see  if  the  car  is  ready  down- 
stairs." 

With  a  final  embrace  Monica  hurried  into  her  bedroom. 

Hendrie  prepared  to  depart  downstairs.  But  a  final  glance 
at  the  clock  arrested  him,  and  he  stood  staring  at  the  desk. 

Slowly  a  flush  crept  into  his  lean  cheeks,  and  the  softness 
of  his  steady  eyes  gave  place  to  the  usual  cold  light  with 
which  the  man  was  accustomed  to  face  his  world.  The  cold- 
ness changed  again  to  a  curious  sparkle — a  sparkle  which 
would  not  have  found  its  way  there  with  any  other  eyes  to 
witness  it. 

He  took  a  step  toward  the  desk  and  picked  up  an  em- 
bossed silver  photograph  frame  and  stared  down  at  the  pic- 
ture it  contained.  For  a  moment  he  only  noted  the  details  of 
the  face  it  portrayed. 

It  was  the  picture  of  a  man,  a  handsome,  powerfully  built 


THE    BLINDING    FIRES 

young  man,  dressed  in  flannels.  The  sweater  he  wore  en- 
hanced his  wonderfully  athletic  figure,  and  added  a  fine  set- 
ting for  the  well-poised  head.  The  photographer  had  done 
his  work  well,  for  never  had  Alexander  Hendrie  looked  upon  a 
more  perfect  picture  of  magnificent  manhood. 

The  glitter  in  his  eyes  hardened,  and  slowly  a  deep  intense 
fire  grew  in  their  depths.  His  brows  drew  together,  and  he 
glowered  writh  something  like  deadly  hatred  upon  the  offend- 
ing picture.  Suddenly  he  replaced  it  upon  the  desk,  and, 
with  a  nervous  thrust,  his  hands  sought  his  trousers  pockets, 
while  he  deliberately  took  a  step  toward  the  door.  But  he 
went  no  further.  He  swung  about,  and  picked  up  the  frame 
again. 

At  that  moment  Monica  re-entered  from  the  bedroom. 

A  sudden  terror  leaped  into  her  eyes  as  she  recognized  the 
silver  frame  in  his  hand.  One  swift  glance  of  his  hot  eyes 
left  her  terror  apparent  to  him.  He  needed  no  more.  A 
furious  rage  mounted  to  his  brain.  It  was  a  rage  of  jealousy. 
The  first  passion  of  jealousy  he  had  ever  known,  and  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  going  mad. 

But  a  powerful  restraint,  the  habit  of  years,  served  him. 
With  one  jerk  of  his  muscular  fingers  the  back  of  the  frame 
was  torn  out,  and  the  photograph  removed.  Then  the  frame 
fell  to  the  floor,  and  its  glass  was  shattered." 

"Who's  picture  is  this  ?"  he  demanded. 

Monica  strove  to  steady  her  shaking  limbs.  She  cleared 
her  throat. 

"Why — that's — that's  the  son  of  an  old  friend  of  mine," 
she  cried  desperately.  "I've  known  him  all  his  life." 

The  man  deliberately  tore  the  picture  across.  He  tore  it 
across  again.  Then  he  walked  over  to  the  stove.  He  opened 
it.  One  by  one  he  dropped  the  fragments  of  Frank  Burton's 
picture  into  the  heart  of  the  glowing  coal.  Then  he  reclosed 
the  door. 

The  next  moment  Monica  was  in  his  arms,  and  his  eyes 
were  devouring  her  beautiful,  frightened  face. 

"Guess  you'll  know  him  no  more,"  he  cried,  with  a  laugh, 
which  only  seemed  to  accentuate  the  fury  of  his  jealousy. 
"No  more.  There's  just  one  man  in  this  world  for  you  now, 
and  that  man  is — 

He  broke  off  and  released  her.    Then,  with  a  sudden  return 


126  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

to  his  normal  manner,  and  all  sign  of  his  mad  jealousy  passed, 
he  led  her  toward  the  door. 

"Say,  there's  going  to  be  no  more  shadows  around,  no 
more  shadows  to — spoil  things.    The  car's  waiting1 — ready." 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   THE   SPRINGTIME 

A  GRAY  twilight  stealing  across  the  sky  heralded  the  com- 
ing of  day.  It  was  spring  upon  the  flooded  prairielands  of 
Canada ;  a  season  which  is  little  more  than  a  mere  break  be- 
tween an  almost  sub-tropical  summer  and  the  harshest  winter 
the  world  knows. 

In  the  shadows  of  dawn  the  country  looked  like  one  vast 
marshland,  rather  than  the  rich  pastures  and  fertile  wheat 
country,  which,  in  days  yet  to  come,  will  surely  fill  the 
stomach  of  the  whole  human  world.  Wide  stretches  of  water 
filled  the  shallow  hollows;  those  troughs  between  the  moun- 
tainous rollers  of  grass,  where  the  land  rose  like  the  swell  of 
a  wind-swept  ocean. 

These  wide  expanses  of  water  were  all  that  was  left  of  snow 
to  the  depth  of  several  feet;  and  in  their  turn  would  soon 
enough  be  licked  up  by  a  thirsty  summer  sun.  This  was  the 
annual  fertilizing  process  which  left  these  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  square  miles  capable  of  a  harvest  which  might  well 
set  weeping  with  envy  the  toil-worn  husbandman  of  older 
countries. 

Just  now  it  was  the  feed  ground  of  migratory  visitors 
from  the  feathered  world.  Also  it  had  consequently  become 
the  happy  hunting-ground  of  every  man  and  boy  in  the  neigh- 
borhood capable  of  carrying  a  gun.  They  were  all  there, 
waiting  in  perfect  silence,  waiting  with  a  patience  which 
nothing  else  could  inspire,  for  the  golden  light  of  day,  and 
the  winging  of  the  unsuspecting  birds. 

The  dim,  yellow  streak  on  the  eastern  horizon  widened,  and 
the  clacking  of  perhaps  a  hundred  thousand  tongues 
screamed  out  their  joy  of  life.  Doubtless  the  affairs  of  the 
day  were  being  discussed,  quarrels  were  being  satisfactorily 
adjusted,  courtships  were  in  progress,  hasty  meals  and  fussy 


IN    THE    SPRINGTIME  127 

toilets  were  being  attended  to.  Doubtless  in  such  a  vast 
colony  as  had  settled  in  the  long  hay  slough,  which  Iooke4  like 
a  broad,  sluggish  river,  the  affairs  of  life  were  as  important 
as  they  are  among  the  human  denizens  of  a  city.  The  clatter 
and  hubbub  went  on,  and  left  the  rest  of  the  world  indifferent, 
as  such  clatter  generally  does. 

Old  Sam  Bernard  and  his  pupil,  Frank  Burton,  were  among 
the  waiting  guns.  The  light  was  not  yet  sufficient,  and  the 
geese  had  not  yet  begun  to  rise.  They  were  both  armed  with 
ten-bore,  double-choke  guns,  the  only  weapons  calculated  to 
penetrate  the  heavy  feathers  of  such  magnificent  game.  Both 
were  lying  full-length  upon  the  sodden  highlands  which  lined 
the  slough,  thrilling  with  the  inspiring  tension  of  keen  sports- 
men. Their  half-bred  spaniels  crouched  between  them,  their 
silky  bodies  quivering  with  joyous  excitement,  but  their  well- 
trained  minds  permitting  no  other  demonstration.  It  was  a 
moment  worth  living  for,  both  for  men  and  dogs. 

At  last  there  came  a  heavy  whirring  sound  down  at  the 
water.  In  a  moment  a  great  gray  bird  sailed  up,  winging  in 
a  wide  circle  toward  Frank's  deadly  gun.  It  was  the  signal 
waited  for.  The  dogs  beat  a  tattoo  with  their  feathered  front 
feet.  .  A  thrill  shot  down  the  two  men's  spines.  Both  raised 
their  guns,  but  it  was  the  sharp  crack  of  the  younger  man's 
which  sent  the  bird  somersaulting  to  the  ground. 

Now  the  whole  length  of  the  slough  became  alive  with 
whirring  wings  and  snapping  guns.  The  panic  of  the  birds 
was  complete.  The  air  was  full  of  cumbersome  speeding 
creatures,  winging  their  way  across  the  danger  zone  in  their 
unhappy  quest  of  safety.  Everywhere  they  paid  the  heavy 
toll  demanded  of  them ;  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  five  hun- 
dred brace  and  more  had  fallen  to  the  forty-odd  guns  waiting 
for  them. 

But  the  shoot  did  not  finish  there.  That  was  the  first  rush. 
That  was  the  pot  hunting.  The  real  sport  of  the  morning 
came  with  the  scattering  and  high  flying  of  the  terrified 
birds,  shooting  which  required  the  greatest  keenness  and  skill, 
Here  the  older  hand  had  all  the  best  of  it,  for  coolness  and 
judgment  alone  could  fill  the  bag.  The  shoot  went  on  well 
into  the  morning,  and  not  until  the  birds  became  so  wild  that 
they  utterly  refused  to  come  within  range  did  the  counting 
of  the  bag  begin. 


128  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

By  ten  o'clock  Sam  Bernard  and  his  pupil  were  returning 
home  to  the  old  man's  farm  in  a  buckboard  laden  down  with 
nearly  a  hundred  birds.  It  had  been  a  great  shoot,  and 
Frank's  enthusiasm  was  almost  feverish. 

"It's  the  greatest  game,"  he  declared.  "Forty-seven 
brace!  Say,  Sam,  shall  we  get  any  more  of  'em  to-morrow?" 

Sam  flicked  the  mare  with  the  whip  as  he  shook  his  gray 
head. 

"Guess  not,"  he  said,  slowly  rolling  a  chew  of  tobacco  into 
the  other  cheek.  They've  smelled  powder,  an'  I'd  sure  say  it's 
a  bokay  they  ain't  yearnin'  to  sniff  again.  They'll  be  miles 
away  by  mornin'." 

"Seems  a  pity,"  murmured  the  blue-eyed  giant  beside  him. 

The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Maybe  so,"  he  observed,  "I  used  to  feel  like  that.  Guess 
I  don't  now. 

"You  mean  a  second  go  wouldn't  be  so — fine." 

The  gray  head  nodded. 

"Guess  when  I  die  I  don't  fancy  no  resurrectin'  racket.  I 
can't  say  but  what  I've  lived  most  every  day  of  my  life — but 
ther's  nothin'  on  this  earth  worth  repeatin' — not  even 
shootin'  up  a  flock  o'  foolhead  geese." 

Frank's  eyes  became  pensive. 

"P'raps  you're  right." 

The  farmer  chirruped  at  his  horse. 

"It's  jest  a  notion,"  he  said  indifferently.  Then  he  pointed 
out  ahead  with  his  whip.  His  wife  was  standing  waiting  for 
them  at  the  door  of  the  farm  house. 

"There's  the  gentlest  soul  living',"  he  observed,  with  a 
smile.  "Guess  she  couldn't  wring  a  chicken's  neck  to  save 
her  life.  But  she'll  sure  handle  these  birds,  an'  reckon  'em 
up,  with  as  much  delight  as  a  cannibal  nigger  smacks  his  lips 
over  a  steak  off  his  pa's  quarters." 

This  man  who  was  teaching  him  the  business  of  farming 
was  always  a  source  of  amusement  to  young  Frank,  and  he 
laughed  cordially  at  the  absurdity  of  his  comparison.  Nor 
could  he  help  watching  the  old  farm-wife  as  they  drove  up. 
True  enough  the  sight  of  the  well-filled  carry-all  gladdened 
her  eyes. 

"Guess  I  don't  need  to  ask  no  fool  questions  about  your 
sport,"  she  cried.  "Say,  ain't  they  great?  Look  at  'em,  all 


IN    THE    SPRINGTIME  129 

bustin'  with  fat.  They'll  make  real  elegant  eatin'.  They 
surely  will.  How  many?  Forty-seven  brace?  Why  don't 
you  say  it  right?  Ninety-four  birds.  The  pore  harmless 
birdies.  I'd  surely  say  you're  the  two  worstest  villains  on  two 
legs.  But  they'll  make  elegant  eatin'.  They  will  that." 

The  two  men  exchanged  smiling  glances  as  they  unloaded 
the  buckboard.  Then,  as  the  choreman  took  it  away  to  the 
barn,  Mrs.  Bernard  remembered  what  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
interesting  thing  in  the  life  of  the  Canadian  farmer.  A 
neighbor  had  brought  out  their  mail  from  Gleber  that  morn- 
ing. She  dived  into  a  capacious  pocket  in  her  ample  print 
skirt,  and  her  russet  face  smiled  up  into  Frank's  blue  eyes. 

"My,  but  them  birds  has  surely  set  me  daft  an'  forgettin'," 
she  cried.  "Here's  your  mail,  boy  Frank,"  she  added,  pulling 
out  a  bulky  envelope.  "Jest  one  letter.  An'  it's  a  female 
writin'  on  it.  Always  a  female  writin'.  You  surely  are  some 
with  the  gals." 

Frank  took  his  letter  with  a  smile  at  the  old  woman's  genial 
chaff.  As  he  was  about  to  pass  into  the  house  to  change  his 
wet  clothes  Sam  called  out — 

"You  don't  need  to  hurry.  Jest  read  your  mail,  an'  when 
you're  through  changin',  guess  we'll  get  right  on  down  to  the 
forty-acre  patch.  We'll  need  to  finish  seedin'  there  this 
week.  Say 

"Yes."    Frank  paused  in  the  doorway. 

The  old  man  grinned  as  he  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the 
cold  storehouse,  whither  his  wife  had  gone  with  some  of  the 
birds. 

"It  don't  make  no  difference  to  a  woman,"  he  said.  "Don't 
matter  if  it  was  your  Gran'ma  instead  of  your  Ma  that  was 
writin'  you,  she'd  guess  it  was  a  sparkin'  letter  from  some  gal. 
Women  is  queer  most  ways." 

"Sure,  Sam,"  Frank  replied  soberly.  "Guess  that's  why 
we  like  'em." 

"Like  'em?    Well,  I'd  smile." 

Up  in  the  attic,  in  the  pitch  of  the  roof,  which  served 
Frank  as  a  bedroom,  he  sat  down  on  the  side  of  his  bed  to 
read  his  letter.  The  little  place  was  homely  and  clean,  but 
there  were  no  comforts.  There  was  not  even  a  chair.  Just 
the  bare  necessities,  and  they  were  ample  for  a  youth  as  plain 
and  cleanly  living  as  its  present  occupant. 


130  THE    ^VAY    OE    THE    STRONG 

For  some  moments  the  letter  remained  unopened  in 
Frank's  hand,  and  it  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  he  had  reluctantly  contemplated  his  mother's  hand- 
writing. He  certainly  was  reluctant  now.  It  was  not  that 
he  was  not  at  all  times  delighted  to  receive  word  from  her, 
but  he  knew,  and  was  apprehensive  of  the  contents  of  this 
bulky  package.  It  was  the  first  letter  he  had  received  from 
Monica  since  her  marriage  to  Hendrie,  which  he  knew  had 
taken  place  nearly  a  month  previously. 

How  many  times  had  he  tried  to  convince  himself  of  lus 
pleasure  in  his  mother's  contemplated  happiness  ?  How  many 
times  had  he  argued  and  debated  with  himself,  pointing  out 
the  naturalness,  the  desirability  of  it  from  a  worldly  point 
of  view?  How  much  his  mother  deserved  the  happiness  he 
knew  was  now  hers.  He  looked  at  the  whole  thing  without 
thought  of  self;  he  looked  at  it  with  all  the  generosity  of 
a  goodly  nature;  he  looked  at  it  with  eyes  just  beginning  to 
open  upon  the  life  moving  about  him;  and  though  he  re- 
assured himself  again  and  again,  he  knew  that  he  regretted 
her  action,  and  regretted  it  more  than  all  for  her  own  sake. 
It  oppressed  him  with  a  sense  of  coming  disaster  which  he 
could  not  shake  off. 

He  had  not  had  an  easy  time  since  his  flying  visit  to 
Winnipeg.  Far  from  it.  His  devotion  to  his  mother  had 
fought  and  conquered  the  natural  resentment  and  bitterness 
her  story  of  his  birth  had  inspired.  But  the  effect  of  that 
battle  remained.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  as  other  men, 
he  knew  that  he  was  not  entitled  to  the  same  privileges  as 
they.  In  a  measure  he  was  an  outcast  among  his  kind, 
and  the  finger  of  pitying  scorn  must  always  be  leveled  at 
him  wherever  the  truth  of  his  parentage  became  known. 

It  was  a  painful  blight  under  which  to  set  out  to  face  the 
world,  and  he  felt  like  the  leper  of  old,  driven  by  the  rest 
of  a  wholesome  world  to  hide  in  the  dim  recesses  of  a  wilder- 
ness, whither  the  eyes  of  man  might  not  see  him,  and  contact 
with  his  fellows  became  impossible. 

These  were  his  feelings,  but  he  had  no  thought  of  putting 
such  ideas  into  practice.  Nor  had  he  any  intention  of  allow- 
ing them  to  embitter  him.  He  was  young,  his  life,  and  a 
great  capacity  for  its  enjoyment,  lay  all  before  him.  He 
would  forget.  He  would  make  himself  forget.  He  would 


IN    THE    SPRINGTIME  131 

live  like  all  those  others  he  saw  about  him.  He  would  work, 
play;  he  would  love.  For  in  spite  of  the  accident  of  his 
birth  all  these  things  were  part  of  the  life  given  him. 

At  last  he  tore  open  the  envelope,  and,  in  a  moment, 
became  absorbed  in  its  contents.  Here  were  the  same  warm 
words  of  affection  he  was  accustomed  to.  The  same  ardent 
desire  for  his  welfare;  and,  through  it  all,  and  through 
the  sober  accounts  of  her  marriage,  and  the  progress  of  her 
new  life,  which  was  all  she  could  desire,  ran  that  thrilling 
note  of  joy  which  told  him  of  the  completeness  of  her  happi- 
ness. 

And  yet  he  was  not  satisfied. 

The  shadow  was  there  lurking  about  him.  It  was  in  the 
corners  of  his  sunny  room,  it  floated  about  his  head  like  an 
invisible  pall,  the  presence  of  which  depressed  him.  Nor 
could  he  rid  himself  of  its  oppressive  weight. 

The  last  page  of  his  letter  he  read  twice  over,  and,  at  the 
second  reading,  he  knew  the  source  whence  the  shadow  had 
sprung.  The  danger  for  his  mother  lay  in  him.  In  his  sim- 
ple existence.  He  knew  it.  Not  only  did  he  know  that  her 
danger  lay  in  him,  but  he  knew  that  some  sort  of  disaster 
would  come  through  him.  He  rose  and  paced  the  floor,  and 
as  he  paced  he  swore  to  himself  that  he  would  destroy  his 
life  rather  than  she  should  ever  suffer  through  him. 

After  a  while,  his  feelings  became  relieved,  and  he  turned 
again  to  that  ominous  last  page,  so  full  of  kindly  thought 
for  him. 

"I  believe  I  am  on  the  track  of  the  very  farm  for  you  It 
is  a  fine  place,  my  agent  tells  me,  dear  boy.  It  consists  'of  a 
whole  section  of  land,  with  more  to  be  acquired  adjoining. 
Furthermore,  it  has  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres  already 
fenced,  and  some  excellent  buildings.  It  also  has  a  water 
front  of  half  a  mile  on  Fish  Creek  with  plenty  of  excellent 
timber.  This  is  going  for  $7000.  The  agent  assures  me  it 
is  a  gift  at  the  price.  It  was  built  by  two  rich  English  boys 
who  got  tired  of  it,  and  went  back  home.  Now,  I  shall  be 
at  Deep  Willows,  our  great  farm,  on  May  15  by  myself. 
Alexander  has  to  be  in  Chicago  then.  He  wanted  me  to 
go  with  him,  but  I  persuaded  him  to  let  me  go  to  Deep 
Willows  by  myself  that  I  might  enjoy  exploring  its  mag- 


132  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

iiificence.  This,  of  course,  was  just  an  excuse  so  that  I 
could  meet  you  there  and  discuss  the  farm,  and  see  about 
these  things.  You  must  run  over  as  soon  after  thjit  date  as 
possible.  It's  less  than  thirty  miles  from  Gleber,  so  you  can 
easily  manage  it." 

There  was  more  of  it,  much  more,  but  Frank  did  not  read 
further.  He  looked  up  with  troubled  eyes.  Here,  here  was 
the  threat  overshadowing  them  both.  He  saw  it  in  the 
subterfuge  by  which  his  mother  was  seeking  to  meet  him. 
He  saw  it  in  the  fearless  manner  in  which  she  deliberately 
refused  to  shut  him  out  of  her  life.  Why  not  send  him  the 
money,  and  let  him  conduct  his  own  affairs  independently 
of  her?  It  would,  at  least,  be  safe.  And,  in  the  midst  of 
all  his  trouble,  absurdly  enough,  he  remembered  Sam  Ber- 
nard's remark:  "Women  is  queer  most  ways." 

He  smiled  in  spite  of  himself,  but  his  smile  did  not  for  a 
moment  ease  his  anxiety  for  his  mother. 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  familiar  voice  of  Sam  calling  up 
the  narrow  stairs  to  him — 

"Ho,  Frank!     You  ready?" 

Frank  thrust  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and,  regardless  of 
the  fact  he  had  not  yet  changed  his  clothes,  hastily  called 
back — 

"Coming  right  along!" 

Downstairs  the  old  man's  twinkling  eyes  greeted  him. 

"Guess  your  mail  took  a  heap  o'  readin' — you  ain't 
changed." 

Frank  smiled  back  at  him. 

"No,"  he  said  abstractedly,  for  he  was  thinking  of  other 
things. 

"Jest  so,"  retorted  the  old  man  promptly.  Then,  with  a 
shrug:  "Anyway,  love  letters  are  warm  enough  to  dry 
most  things.  Say " 

"It  was  from  my  mother." 

"Ah." 

"And  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you'll  give  me  the  afternoon 
off.  I'd  like  to  go  across  to  the  Raysun's." 

The  old  man  eyed  him  shrewdly. 

"I  didn't  reckon  to,  lad,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "You  see  the  seedin'  needs  to  get  on.  But  I 


LIFE    THROUGH    OTHER    EYES 

guess  you  best  go.  •  Letters  from  your  Ma  generly  need 
talkin'  over  with  your  best  gal — 'fore  you're  married." 

The  old  man's  quiet  geniality  was  quite  irresistible,  and 
Frank  thanked  him  warmly.  The  more  surely  because  he 
had  come  very  near  to  guessing  the  purpose  he  had  in 
making  this  visit.  But  his  purpose  was  rather  in  conse- 
quence of,  than  to  discuss  his  mother's  letter.  It  was  a 
purpose  he  had  impulsively  decided  upon  for  no  better 
reason  than  that  all  subterfuge  was  utterly  repulsive  to 
him,  and  he  felt  that  before  it  was  too  late  Phyllis  must  be 
told  the  painful  truth  about  himself. 

In  some  measure  his  sudden  decision  comforted  him,  as 
he  thought  of  the  secret  fashion  in  which  it  was  demanded 
of  him  that  he  should  visit  his  mother.  At  least  there 
should  be  no  such  lack  of  openness  between  himself  and  the 
girl  he  hoped  some  day  to  make  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LIFE    THROUGH    OTHER    EYES 

PHYLLIS  RAYSUN  was  quite  a  remarkable  girl  when  her 
parentage  and  simple,  yet  strenuous,  upbringing  were  con- 
sidered. Her  beauty  was  quite  decided,  and  was  admitted 
even  by  those  female  souls  who  were  really  fond  of  her. 
She  was  dark,  with  large,  dark  eyes,  deeply  fringed  with 
black  lashes,  almost  Celtic  in  their  depth  and  sleepy  fire. 
And  with  it  all  she  wore  an  expression  of  keenness  and 
decision  at  all  times.  She  was  tall,  of  a  height  which  always 
goes  so  well  with  a  purposeful  face  such  as  hers ;  and  the 
delightful  contours  of  her  figure  were  all  the  more  grace- 
fully natural  for  the  absence  of  corsets.  But  wherein  lay 
the  unusual  side  of  her  personality  was  the  unconventional 
views  of  life  she  already  possessed  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
years.  The  breadth  of  them  was  often  quite  disconcerting 
in  one  so  young,  and  frequently  it  made  her  the  despair  of 
her  plump  and  doting,  and  very  ordinarily  helpless  mother. 

Perhaps  her  mother's  helplessness  may  have  accounted  in 
some  measure  for  Phyllis's  unusual  mental  development.  It 
may  have  had  a  pronounced  influence  upon  her,  for  they 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

two  were  quite  alone.  Years  ago,  when  she  was  an  infant, 
her  father  had  died,  leaving  her  mother  in  sorely  straitened 
circumstances. 

From  her  earliest  years  Phyllis  had  had  to  think  for 
herself,  and  help  in  the  struggle  against  poverty.  Then, 
as  she  grew  older,  she  realized  that  they  possessed  a  wholly 
neglected  property  which  should  yield  them  a  living.  So 
she  set  to  work  on  the  farm,  and,  little  by  little,  she  wrested 
from  the  soil  that  profit,  which,  as  the  years  went  on,  grad- 
ually lifted  them  both  from  the  depths  of  penury  to  a 
frugal  comfort.  Now  the  farm  was  nearing  prosperity,  and, 
with  the  aid  of  a  hired  man,  Phyllis  worked  it  with  all  the 
skill  of  an  expert  and  widely  experienced  farmer. 

Her  mother  was  simply  a  chorewoman ;  a  capable  enough 
woman  in  this  lowly  capacity.  She  could  never  hope  to  rise 
above  it.  Nor  was  Phyllis  ever  disturbed  by  the  knowledge. 
She  valued  the  usefulness  of  her  mother's  work  too  well, 
and,  besides,  she  loved  the  helpless  old  body,  and  delighted 
in  the  care  of  her  as  though  she  were  some  small  child  of 
her  own. 

Phyllis  had  spent  her  morning  out  seeding,  as  every  other 
farmer  in  the  district  was  doing,  while  her  hired  man  was 
busy  with  plough  and  team  breaking  the  last  year's  fallows. 
The  work  was  arduous  and  monotonous,  but  the  girl  felt 
neither  of  these  things.  She  loved  her  little  homestead  with 
its  hundred  and  sixty  acres,  and  she  asked  nothing  better 
than  to  tend  it,  and  watch,  and  reap  the  results.  She  was 
robust  in  mind  and  body,  and  none  of  the  claims  of  this 
agricultural  life  came  amiss  to  her. 

But  during  the  past  six  months  a  new  interest  had  come 
into  her  life  in  the  shape  of  a  blue-eyed  male  giant  of  her 
own  age;  and  from  the  moment  she  first  set  eyes  upon  him 
an  added  glow  lit  the  heavens  of  her  consciousness.  She 
did  not  recognize  its  meaning  at  first.  Only  she  realized  that 
somehow  the  winter  days  were  less  dark  and  irksome,  and  an 
added  zest  became  apparent  in  the  everlasting  looking  for- 
ward. 

But  by  degrees  he  became  an  intimate  in  her  life,  and, 
finally,  almost  part  of  it.  It  was  a  wonderful  time  for 
Phyllis.  Through  it  all  he  was  always  associated  with  the 
first  apparition  she  had  had  of  him.  In  her  dreaming  mind, 


LIFE    THROUGH    OTHER    EYES  135 

as  she  went  about  her  work,  she  always  saw  him  as  she  had 
seen  him  then,  sitting  on  the  back  of  a  beautiful  East-bred, 
golden  chestnut  horse,  disconsolately  viewing  the  distance 
with  questioning  blue  eyes,  seeking  a  direction  he  had  abso- 
lutely lost. 

That  was  her  first  meeting  with  Frank  Burton,  and  some- 
how she  had  been  glad,  from  the  first  moment  she  set  eyes 
on  him,  that  hers  had  been  the  opportunity  of  relieving  him 
from  the  dilemma  in  which  he  had  found  himself. 

Since  then  their  friendship  had  ripened  quickly.  The 
pulses  of  youth  had  been  quickly  stirred,  and  almost  before 
Phyllis  was  aware  of  it  that  glorious  early  spring  day  had 
dawned  when  the  great  golden  sun  of  love  had  burst  upon 
her  horizon,  and  turned  a  chill,  snow-clad  world  into  a  per- 
fect poet's  dream  of  delight. 

Without  a  second  thought  she  engaged  herself  to  the 
boy,  and  the  boy  engaged  himself  to  her.  They  loved,  so 
what  mattered  anything  else  in  the  world?  Their  blood 
ran  hot  in  healthy  veins,  and  the  whole  wide  world  lay  before 
them. 

Phyllis  was  returning  at  midday  with  the  old  mare  that 
hauled  her  seeder.  As  she  came  she  was  reckoning  up  the 
time  which  the  rest  of  the  seeding  would  take.  This  year 
an  added  twenty-five  acres  was  to  be  put  under  crop,  and 
time  in  spring  was  always  the  farmer's  nightmare.  She  had 
completed  her  figures  by  the  time  she  drew  near  the  house, 
when,  looking  up,  with  satisfied  eyes,  she  beheld  the  figure  of 
the  man,  whose  presence  never  failed  to  raise  a  smile  of 
delight  in  her  eyes,  standing  at  the  door  talking  to  her 
mother. 

"Ho,  Frank!"  she  cried  out  joyously. 

The  man  turned  at  once  and  answered  her  greeting,  but 
the  smile  on  his  handsome  face  had  little  of  the  girl's  un- 
qualified joy  in  it.  Her  sensitive  feelings  quickly  detected 
the  lack,  and  she  understood  that  there  was  something  amiss. 
Frank  came  swiftly  across  to  her,  and  relieved  her  of  the 
mare,  which  he  led  to  the  barn  while  Phyllis  walked  at  his 
side. 

"I  just  felt  I  had  to  come  over,  Phyl,"  he  said  impulsively. 
"I  couldn't  pass  another  night  until  I  had  seen  you  and  told 
you  all.  I'm — I'm  utterly  miserable.  I " 


136  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

They  had  reached  the  barn  and  Phyllis  halted. 

"You  put  the  mare  in,  and  feed  her  hay,"  she  interrupted 
him  quickly.  "Dan  will  feed  her  oats  and  water  her  when 
he  comes  in." 

Her  manner  was  studiously  matter  of  fact.  She  had 
realized  at  once  that  Frank's  condition  must  not  be  en- 
couraged. So  she  remained  outside  the  barn,  and  waited 
for  him. 

The  boy  found  her  sitting  on  the  tongue  of  the  wagon 
which  stood  close  by,  and  the  misery  in  his  eyes  deepened  as 
he  surveyed  the  charming,  pensive  face  he  loved  so  dearly. 

"Come  and  sit  here,  Frank.  Then  you  can  tell  me  about 
it." 

Phyllis  looked  up  at  him  in  that  tender,  mothering  way 
she  had  learned  in  her  years  of  care  for  her  only  parent. 

The  man  obeyed,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  left 
Sam  Bernard's  farm  that  morning,  a  genuine  smile  of  some- 
thing like  contentment  lit  his  hitherto  somber  face. 

"Phyl,"  he  cried  suddenly,  "you — you  make  me  feel  better 
already.  You — oh,  it's  wonderful  the  influence  you  exercise 
over  me.  I " 

He  broke  off,  and,  seizing  her  two  hands,  bent  over  and 
kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"That's  better,"  the  girl  exclaimed  happily,  when  he  had 
released  her.  "When  two  people  really  love  each  other  they 
can  generally  manage  to  set  the  worst  of  any  shadows  scoot- 
ing off  to  the  dark  places  they  belong." 

The  man  smiled  in  spite  of  himself. 

"But — but  it's  serious.     It  really  is.     It's  simply  awful." 

The  girl's  eyes  were  just  a  shade  anxious,  but  her  manner 
was  lightly  tender. 

"Of  course  it  is.  It  surely  is.  Say,  Frank,  everything's 
awful  that  makes  us  unhappy.  And  I  guess  something's 
made  you  real  unhappy.  Now,  just  get  very  busy  and  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

The  man  sat  with  his  great  body  drooping  forward,  and 
his  hands  clasped,  and  hanging  between  his  parted  knees. 

"Unhappy?  It's — it's  worse  than  that.  I — I  came  over 
here  to  tell  you  that — that  you  can  have  your  promise  back 
— if  you  want  it." 

It  was  out.     He  had  blurted  it  clumsily  he  knew,  but  it 


LIFE    THROUGH    OTHER    EYES  137 

was  out.  And  now  he  sat  fearing  to  look  up  into  the  truth- 
ful eyes  he  loved  so  dearly. 

Phyllis  drew  a  sharp  breath.  She  looked  straight  ahead 
of  her  for  one  brief  moment  while  her  sunny  cheeks  paled. 
Then  the  soft  color  came  back  to  them,  and,  presently,  a 
very  tender,  very  wise  pair  of  eyes  studied  his  dejected 
profile. 

"And  if  I  don't  want  it — back?"  she  said  gently. 

Frank  raised  his  miserable  eyes  and  looked  straight  into 
hers. 

"But  you  will  when  you  know  all,"  he  cried,  almost  pas- 
sionately. "I  know  it.  I  feel  it.  I  know  that  a  good,  honest 
girl  like  you  could  not  bear  disgrace.  No  disgrace  has  ever 
touched  you,  and,  through  me,  no  disgrace  ever  shall.  When 
I  asked  for  your  promise  I  did  not  know  all  I  know  now. 
If  I  had  I  would  rather  have  cut  off  my  right  hand  than 
attempt  to  win  your  love.  And  now — now  I  know  that  I 
had  no  right  to  it.  I  have  no  right  to  any  good  woman's 
love.  I — I  have  no  right  to  anything.  Not  even  to  my 
name." 

"Frank!" 

Another  sharp  intake  of  breath  came  with  the  girl's  ex- 
clamation. 

"Yes,  I  mean  it,"  the  boy  went  on,  with  passionate  misery. 
"I  have  known  it  for  six  weeks,  and  I  should  have  told  you 
before,  but — but  I  hadn't  the  courage,  the  honesty.  I — I 
have  no  legitimate  father.  I — I  am  a  bastard." 

He  made  his  final  statement  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
To  see  this  great,  honest  boy  bowed  with  such  a  sincerity 
of  misery  was  too  much  for  Phyllis. 

"You  didn't  win  my  love,  Frank,"  she  said,  with  eyes 
that  were  tenderly  smiling.  "I  gave  it  to  you — quite  un- 
asked. I  gave  it  to  you  such  a  long — long  time  ago.  I 
think  I  must  sure  have  given  it  you  before  ever  I  saw  you. 
And — and  as  for  my  promise,  I  guess  that  was  given  most 
at  the  same  time — only  I  just  didn't  know  'bout  it.  I  don't 
think  I  could  take  my  promise  back  if  I  felt  that  way.  But 
I  don't — not  if  you'd  like  to  keep  it." 

"Phyl,  Phyl !"  The  boy's  eyes  were  shining,  but  his  sense 
of  right  made  him  protest.  "You  don't  know  what  you're 
doing.  You  surely  don't.  Think  of  it.  I — I  have  no  real 


138  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

name.  Think  what  folks'll  say  when  they  know.  Think 
of  the  disgrace  for  you.  Think  of  your  girl  friends.  Phyllis 
Raysun  marrying  a — bastard.  Oh,  it's  awful." 

"You  do  love  me,  Frank,  don't  you?" 

The  girl's  question  came  so  simply  that  Frank  turned  in 
astonishment.  The  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  and 
the  joy  of  his  hot  kisses  pervaded  her  whole  body. 

"Love  you?  Love  you?"  he  cried.  "You're  all  the  world 
to  me." 

Presently  she  released  herself  from  his  embrace  and  smiled 
up  into  his  face. 

"Then  what  in  the  world  else  matters  to — us?"  she  de- 
manded frankly. 

Then  she  went  on,  looking  straight  before  her  at  the 
tumbled-down  sod  house  which  had  been  her  home  ever  since 
her  birth. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "You  are  illegitimate.  I  won't  have 
that  other  word.  It's  brutal,  and  it's  not  right  anyway. 
Do  you  ever  think  of  our  poor  little  lives?  I  do — often. 
Guess  I've  thought  so  much  I  wonder  folks  make  all  the 
to-do  they  do  about  lots  of  things  that  can't  possibly  mat- 
ter. What  is  life?  Why,  it's  a  great  big  machine  sort  of 
tiling  that  none  of  us,  the  wisest,  don't  know  a  thing  about. 
Why  is  it?  Where  does  it  come  from?  What  is  it?  Is 
it?  No,  not  the  wisest  man  in  all  the  world  can  answer  one 
of  those  questions  right.  He  can't.  He  can't.  And  yet 
everybody  gets  busy  making  crazy  little  regulations  for 
running  it.  Do  you  see?  We're  built  and  developed  by  this 
wonderful,  wonderful  machine  thing,  and  then  we  turn  right 
around  and  tell  anybody,  even,  yes,  the  wonderful  machine 
thing  that  made  us  itself,  how  we  should  live  the  life  which 
has  already  been  arranged  for. 

"Frank  dear,"  she  hurried  on  eagerly,  "it's  almost  funny, 
only  it's  all  so  plumb  crazy.  Do  you  ever  go  to  Meeting?  I 
mean  church?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  Frank  admitted  ruefully. 

"I  do,"  cried  the  girl.  "Oh  yes,  I  do."  Then  she  laughed. 
"It's  more  funny  than  you'd  expect,  if — if  you  only  think 
about  it.  I  always  think  a  lot  when  I  go.  It  makes  me 
think,  but  not  in  the  way  the  parson  would  have  me.  I 
always  start  thinking  about  him.  It  seems  so  queer,  him 


LIFE    THROUGH    OTHER    EYES 

standing  up  there  talking  Bible  stuff,  and  telling  you  what 
it  means,  just,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  he'd  wrote  it,  and 
knew  all  about  it ;  j  ust  as  if  he  was  a  personal  friend  of  that 
great  machine  thing  that  keeps  this  world  buzzing  around 
and  sets  us  feeling,  and  doing,  and  happy,  and  miserable. 
Then  he  gets  paid  like  any  hired  man  for  talking  to  us  all, 
just  as  if  we  were  silly  folk  who  couldn't  think  just  as  well 
as  him.  But  he  don't  really  think  far.  He  just  tells  you 
what  he's  told  to  tell  you  by  those  who  pay  him  his  wages, 
and  if  he  told  you  anything  else  he'd  lose  his  job,  and  maybe 
have  to  plow  for  a  living,  and  then  be  told  by  some  other 
feller  every  seventh  day  he  was  a  fool  and  a  sinner. 

"Then  you  go  to  another  church — or  meeting  house.  It 
used  to  make  me  real  bad  one  time.  But  it  doesn't  now, 
because  I'm  getting  to  understand  better.  Well,  at  the 
other  place  they  tell  you  all  different.  And  while  you're 
listening  it  makes  you  think  the  other  feller's  a  fool,  and — 
and  ought  to  be  making  hay,  or  maybe  eating  it.  Then 
you  get  mazed  up  with  so  much  contradiction  about  Life, 
and  God,  and  all  the  other  things,  so  you  find  another 
church.  Then  that  feller  gets  up  and  tells  you  that  none 
of  the  others  have  got  it  right — no  one  else  in  the  world  but 
him,  as  the  representative  of  his  particular  religion.  And 
he  asks  you  to  help  him  send  out  missionaries,  and  things, 
to  tell  everybody  that  don't  think  the  same  as  him  they're 
fools  and  worse,  and — and — they're  all  going  plumb  to  hell 
— wherever  that  is. 

"Now  what  does  it  all  come  to,  Frank?"  she  cried,  with 
eyes  glowing  and  cheeks  flushed  with  enthusiasm.  "Why, 
just  this.  We're  born  into  this  world,  which  is  a  wonderful, 
wonderful  place,  through  none  of  our  doing.  A  big  God, 
somewhere,  gives  us  our  life,  and  implants  in  us  a  wonderful 
sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and  we've  just  got  to  use  it  the 
best  we  know.  We  don't  know  anything  beyond  the  limits 
of  understanding  He's  given  us,  and  He  doesn't  intend  us 
to  know  more.  He  just  seems  to  say,  'Go  right  along  and 
work  out  your  own  salvation;  and  when  you've  done,  I'll 
come  along  and  see  how  you've  been  doing,  and,  maybe,  I'll 
fix  it  so  your  failures  won't  happen  in  the  newer  lives  I  set 
going.'  That's  how  it  seems  to  me.  So  you  don't  need  to 
listen  more  than  you  want  to  what  other  folks,  no  wiser  than 


140  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

yourself,  tell  you  of  what's  right  and  what's  wrong.  You 
don't;  because  they  don't  know  any  better  than  you — and 
that's  a  fact.  So  when  you  come  and  tell  me  you're  dis- 
graced, just  because  your  pa  and  momma  weren't  preached 
at  by  a  feller  all  dressed  in  white,  and  they  didn't  have  bells 
ringing,  and  she  didn't  have  a  trousseau,  and  the  folks  didn't 
get  around  and  make  speeches,  and  pile  a  shower  of  paper 
stuff  down  their  backs,  I  say  you're  not.  None  of  it  matters. 
Nothing  in  the  whole  wide  world  matters — so  long  as  we 
don't  let  go  our  hold  on  that  sense  of  right  and  wrong  which 
the  good  God  gave  us.  That's  all  that  really  does  matter 
to  us.  It's  no  concern  of  ours  what  folks  who  came  before 
us  did,  or  the  doings  of  folks  who're  coming  after.  We've 
got  to  do  our  work.  We've  got  to  love  and  live  till  it  pleases 
our  great  big  God  to  tell  us  to  stop.  And  I'm  most  sure  if 
we  do  that,  and  hold  tight  to  our  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
and  act  as  it  prompts  us,  we're  just  doing  His  Will — as  He 
wants  us  to  do  it." 

Frank  sat  staring  in  wide  astonishment  at  the  girl's  flushed 
face  and  bright,  enthusiastic  eyes.  But  the  effect  of  her 
words,  her  understanding  of  things,  upon  him  was  none  the 
less.  He  felt  the  great  underlying  truth  in  all  she  said,  and 
it  brought  him  a  measure  of  comfort  which  his  own  lack  of 
real  thought  had  left  him  without. 

"Phyl!"  he  almost  gasped. 

The  girl  broke  into  happy  laughter. 

"Say,  Frank,"  she  cried,  "don't  tell  me  I'll— I'll  go  to 
hell  for  it  all.  I — I  couldn't  stand  that — from  you." 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  He,  too,  joined  in  the  laugh. 
He  felt  he  wanted  to  laugh.  It  was  as  though  she  had  sud- 
denly relieved  him  of  an  intolerable  burden. 

"I  wouldn't  tell  you  that,  Phyl,"  he  said,  with  heavy  ear- 
nestness. "You'll  go  somewhere,  but  it  won't  be — to  hell." 

"And — and  you  don't  want  me  to  take  my  promise  back  ?" 
she  asked  him,  her  gray  eyes  sobering  at  once. 

"No,  dear,  I  just  love  you  more  than  ever."  He  sighed 
in  great  contentment.  "And  we'll  get  married  as  soon — 
as  soon  as  mother  buys  me  the  farm  she's  going  to.  She's 
written  me  about  it  to-day." 

"Ah,  yes,  that  farm."  Phyllis  rested  her  chin  upon  her 
hand,  and  gazed  out  at  the  old  house  abstractedly. 


HAPPY    DAYS  141 

"It's  to  be  a  swell  place,"  the  boy  went  on. 

"I'm  so  glad,  Frank,"  she  replied  absently.  Then  she 
recalled  her  dreaming  faculties.  "And — your  momma's  giv- 
ing it  to  you?  She  must  be  very  rich." 

Frank  flushed  and  turned  his  eyes  away. 

"She  has  a  good  deal  of  money,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

The  girl  seemed  to  understand.  She  questioned  him  no 
further. 

"She  must  be  a  good  and  kind  woman,"  she  said  gently. 
"I  hope  some  day  I  may  get — to  know  her." 

«T 5J 

Frank  broke  off.  The  promise  he  was  rashly  about  to 
make  remained  unspoken.  He  knew  he  could  not  promise 
anything  in  his  mother's  name — now. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HAPPY  DAYS 

ANGUS  MORAINE  was  a  dour,  hard-headed  business  man 
such  as  Alexander  Hendrie  liked  to  have  about  him.  He 
was  also  an  agriculturalist  from  his  finger-tips  to  his  back- 
bone, and  the  millionaire's  great  farm  at  Deep  Willows 
owed  most  of  its  prosperity  to  this  hard,  raw-boned  de- 
scendant from  the  Crofters  of  Scotland. 

When  he  heard  of  his  friend  and  employer's  forthcoming 
marriage  he  shook  his  head,  and  his  lean  face  took  on  an 
expression  of  added  sourness.  He  saw  visions  of  his  own 
sphere  of  administration  at  Deep  Willows  becoming  nar- 
rowed. He  felt  that  the  confidence  of  his  employer  was 
likely  to  be  diverted  into  another  channel.  This  meant  more 
than  a  mere  outrage  to  his  pride.  He  knew  it  might  affect 
his  private  pocket  in  an  adverse  degree.  Therefore  the  news 
was  all  the  more  unwelcome. 

Pondering  on  these  matters  while  on  a  round  of  inspection 
of  the  far-reaching  wheat-lands  which  he  controlled,  he  ab- 
ruptly drew  up  his  sturdy  broncho  in  full  view  of  a  great 
gray  owl  perched  on  the  top  of  a  barbed  wire  fence-post. 
He  sat  there  surveying  the  creature  for  some  moments,  and 
finally  apostrophized  it,  feeling  that  so  uncanny  and  secretive 
a  fowl  was  an  admirable  and  safe  recipient  for  his  confidences. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"It's  no  sort  of  use,  my  gray  and  ugly  friend,"  he  said, 
in  his  wry  way.  "Folks  call  Master  Alexander  the  Napoleon 
of  the  wheat  world,  and  I'm  not  saying  he  isn't.  But 
Napoleons  generally  make  a  mess  of  things  when  they  marry. 
Their  business  is  fighting,  or — -they  wouldn't  be  Napoleons." 

Quite  apart  from  his  own  interests  he  felt  that  Hendrie 
was  making  a  grave  mistake,  and,  later  on,  when  he  learned 
that  he  had  married  his  secretary,  his  conviction  became 
permanent.  This  time  his  disapproval  was  directed  at  the 
map  of  Alberta,  which  hung  upon  his  office  wall.  He  shook 
his  bony  forefinger  with  its  torn  and  dirty  nail  at  the  silent 
witness,  his  narrow  eyes  snapping  with  angry  scorn. 

"Female  secretaries  are  pernicious,"  he  cried  angrily. 
"They're  worse'n  a  colony  of  gophers  in  a  wheat  patch. 
You  want  a  temperature  of  forty  below  to  keep  your  office 
cool  with  a  woman  working  in  it.  Hendrie  always  hated 
the  cold." 

But  his  apprehensions  did  not  end  there.  Later  he  learned 
that  Deep  Willows  was  to  be  Monica's  future  home,  and 
the  place  was  to  be  immediately  prepared  for  her  reception. 

This  time  the  telephone  over  which  he  had  received  his 
instructions  got  the  full  benefit  of  his  displeasure. 

It  was  cold  and  calm,  and  thoroughly  biting. 

"I'll  need  to  chase  a  new  job,  or  the  old  one'll  chase  me," 
he  muttered,  and  the  thermometer  of  his  feelings  for  women, 
as  a  race,  dropped  far  below  the  zero  at  which  it  had  hitherto 
stood. 

But  there  was  far  too  much  of  the  old  Crofter's  blood  in 
Angus's  veins  to  let  him  relinquish  the  gold  mine  which 
Hendrie's  affairs  were  to  him.  However  he  disliked  the  new 
conditions  of  things  he  kept  his  feelings  to  himself,  or  only 
permitted  their  expression  before  silent  witnesses.  With 
all  the  caution  of  his  forefathers  he  awaited  developments, 
and  refrained  from  any  precipitate  action;  and,  later  on, 
he  was  more  than  glad  he  had  exercised  such  restraint. 

The  necessary  preparations  were  duly  put  in  hand,  and 
Angus  supervised  everything  himself.  Every  detail  was  car- 
ried out  with  that  exactness  for  which  Hendrie's  manager 
was  noted.  He  spared  no  pains,  and  that  was  his  way.  His 
native  shrewdness  had  long  ago  taught  him  how  best  he 
could  serve  his  employer's  interests,  and,  consequently,  hi3 


HAPPY    DAYS 

own.  Implicit  obedience  to  the  millionaire  left  him  with 
enormous  pickings,  and  the  building  up  of  Hendrie's  minia- 
ture world  of  wheat  had  left  him  comparatively  a  rich  man, 
with  small  agricultural  interests  scattered  all  over  the  north- 
west. He  was  not  the  man  to  turn  and  rend  the  golden  calf 
he  worshiped,  nor  to  attempt  to  cook  his  own  tame  golden 
goose  in  the  fire  of  his  displeasure.  Besides,  deep  down  in 
his  rugged  heart,  he  was  utterly  devoted  to  his  employer. 
So  he  gave  Monica  and  her  husband  a  royal  welcome  to 
Deep  Willows. 

After  all  Monica  was  not  permitted  to  explore  Deep  Wil- 
lows by  herself.  Hendrie  contrived  to  get  his  business  in 
Chicago  temporarily  adjusted,  and,  as  a  surprise,  explained 
at  the  last  moment  to  his  bride  that  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  permit  her  going  to  Deep  Willows  for  the  first  time 
without  him. 

The  news  at  once  pleased  and  terrified  Monica.  Her 
thoughts  flew  to  Frank,  and  her  appointment  with  him,  and 
it  became  necessary  at  once  to  despatch  a  "rushed"  wire  to 
put  him  off.  When  this  had  been  done  she  felt  more  at  ease, 
and  abandoned  herself  to  her  pleasure  in  the  thought  that, 
after  all,  her  husband  was  to  accompany  her  to  the  home 
which  she  had  decided  should  be  theirs. 

But  it  left  her  with  a  fuller  understanding  of  the  diffi- 
culties and  dangers  with  which  she  was  beset.  She  realized 
that  an  added  caution  was  needed.  That  it  would  be  so  easy 
to  make  a  slip,  and  so  run  the  risk  of  wrecking  her  newly 
found  happiness. 

Yes,  there  was  no  denying  it,  she  was  utterly  happy  dur- 
ing those  first  weeks  of  her  married  life,  and  frequently  she 
found  herself  wondering  how  she  had  had  the  courage  to 
face  the  long  years  of  her  spinsterhood. 

It  had  been  worth  waiting  for.  She  had  married  the  man 
of  her  choice,  the  one  man  in  all  the  world  who  appealed  to 
her  as  the  very  essence  of  all  that  was  great,  and  strong, 
and  lovable  in  manhood.  Here  was  no  weakling  to  appeal 
to  her  sense  of  motherhood,  but  a  powerful,  commanding, 
yes,  even  ruthless  personality,  upon  which  she  could  lean  in 
times  when  her  woman's  heart  needed  such  strong  support. 

Then,  too,  she  saw  a  side  of  his  character  which  the  world 
was  never  likely  to  see,  and  her  pride  and  delight  in  the 


THE    WAV    OF    THE    STRONG 

privilege  were  wholly  womanly.  To  her  he  was  the  lover, 
tender,  passionate,  strong.  And  his  jealous  regard  for  her 
was  an  added  delight  to  her  woman's  vanity  and  love. 

The  thought  of  his  power  in  the  world,  his  Napoleonic 
methods  of  openly  seeking  liis  adversary  in  the  world  of 
finance  and  crushing  him  to  his  will  only  made  the  intimacy 
of  their  lives  all  the  sweeter  to  her.  She  was  ambitious, 
ambitious  for  him,  ambitious  to  stand  at  his  side  on  every 
plane  to  which  he  soared. 

Then  came  her  arrival  at  Deep  Willows ;  and  at  once  she 
learned  to  her  delight  the  chief  reason  of  her  husband's 
accompanj'ing  her. 

She  had  expected  a  fine  farm,  built  as  farms  were  built 
in  this  new  country.  She  had  expected  a  great  place,  where 
comfort  was  sacrificed  to  the  work  in  hand.  She  had  ex- 
pected the  rush  and  busy  life  of  a  great  commercial  under- 
taking, wonderful  organization,  wonderful  machinery,  won- 
derful, crude  buildings  for  the  surer  storing  of  crops.  But, 
though  she  found  all  the  wonders  of  machinery,  all  the  busy 
life  she  had  expected,  all  the  buildings,  she  found  something 
more,  something  she  had  not  been  led  to  expect  in  a  man  of 
Hendrie's  plain  tastes. 

A  miniature  palace  was  awaiting  her.  A  palace  standing 
in  its  own  wide  grounds  of  park-like  trees  and  delicious, 
shaded  gardens.  She  found  a  home  in  which  a  king  might 
have  dwelt,  one  that  had  been  designed  by  one  of  the  most 
famous  architects  of  the  day. 

It  was  set  on  the  banks  of  a  river,  high  up  on  a  rising 
ground,  whence,  from  its  windows,  a  wide  view  of  the  almost 
illimitable  wheat-fields  spread  out  before  the  eyes,  and,  di- 
rectly below,  lay  the  roaring  falls  where  the  water  of  the 
river  dropped  churning  into  a  wide  gorge.  Truly  the  setting 
of  this  home  was  as  nearly  perfect  as  a  prodigal  nature 
could  make  it. 

The  land  in  its  immediate  vicinity  had  no  regularity;  it 
was  a  tumbled  profusion  of  natural  splendor,  perfectly 
trained  in  its  own  delightful  disorder.  The  farm  buildings 
were  nowhere  visible  from  the  house  or  grounds.  They  were 
hidden  behind  a  great  stretch  of  woodland  bluff  so  that 
nothing  should  spoil  the  view  from  the  house.  All  that  was 
visible  was  the  wheat,  stretching  away  in  every  directioD 


THEN  CAME  HER  ARRIVAL  AT  DEEP  WILLOWS 


HAPPY    DAYS  145 

over  the  undulating  plains  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  cen- 
tering about  this  perfect  heart,  and  radiating  to  a  distance 
of  something  like  five  miles. 

Such  was  the  home  which  Monica's  love  for  Hendrie  had 
brought  her;  and  the  man's  joy  in  offering  it  for  her  ac- 
ceptance was  a  thing  to  remember  all  her  life. 

There  was  that  light  of  perfect  happiness  in  his  gray  eyes 
as  he  stood  in  what  he  called  the  office,  but  which  was,  in 
reality,  a  library  furnished  with  every  luxury  unlimited 
wealth  could  command.  He  held  out  a  long  blue  envelope 
on  which  her  name  was  inscribed. 

"Now,  Mon,"  he  said,  in  a  sober  way  which  his  eyes  belied, 
"I  guess  you've  seen  most  all,  and — and  I've  been  real  happy 
showing  it  you.  Make  me  happier  still  by  taking  this. 
When  you've  read  the  contents,  just  have  it  locked  away  in 
your  safe  deposit.  It's — it's  a  present  for  a  good  girl." 

Monica  drew  out  the  papers  and  gasped  out  her  delight 
when  she  discovered  that  they  were  a  deed  of  gift  to  her  of 
Deep  Willows.  The  house,  furniture,  and  the  grounds  as 
separate  from  the  farm. 

"It's— it's  too  much,  Alec !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I  can  scarcely 
believe  it — scarcely  believe  it." 

The  man's  face  was  a  study  in  perfect  happiness  as  he 
feasted  his  eyes  upon  her  beautiful  flushed  face.  The  power 
to  give  in  this  princely  fashion  touched  him  more  nearly 
than  perhaps  any  other  feeling,  next  to  his  love  for  her. 

But  his  commercial  instinct  made  him  laugh. 

"You'll  believe  it,  dear,"  he  said  dryly,  "if  ever  you  get 
busy  paying  for  its  up-keep  out  of  your  marriage  settle- 
ment." 

That  night  Monica  realized  that  the  culminating  day  of 
her  love  and  ambitions  had  drawn  to  a  close.  Such  a  day 
could  never  come  again,  such  moments  could  never  be  ex- 
perienced twice  in  a  lifetime.  Her  good  fortune  had  come 
at  last,  come  in  abundance.  She  was  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
country's  richest  and  most  successful  men.  His  love  for  her, 
and  her  love  for  him  was  perfect,  utterly  complete.  She 
owned  a  home  whose  magnificence  any  prince  might  envy. 
What  more  could  she  hope,  or  wish  for?  All  that  the  world 
seemed  to  have  to  offer  was  hers.  It  was  all  too  wonderful 

— too  wonderful. 
11 


146  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Then,  strangely  enough,  in  the  midst  of  her  content,  her 
thoughts  mechanically  drifted  to  other  scenes,  other  days. 
They  floated  back  to  the  now  dim  and  distant  struggles  that 
lay  behind  her,  and  at  once  centered  round  a  blue-eyed,  fair- 
haired  boy  whom  she  had  mothered  and  watched  grow  to 
manhood. 

She  slept  badly  that  night.  Her  sleep  was  broken,  fitful ; 
and  every  time  she  slept  it  was  to  dream  of  Frank,  and 
every  dream  was  of  trouble,  trouble  that  always  involved 
him. 

A  week  later  the  call  of  business  took  Hendrie  away.  Such 
were  his  interests  that  he  could  never  hope  to  remain  for 
long  in  any  one  place.  He  went  away  after  a  brief,  charac- 
teristic interview  with  Angus  Moraine. 

It  occurred  in  the  library. 

"Angus,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  get  a  grip  on  this. 
Henceforth  my  wife  represents  me  in  all  matters  to  do  with 
this  place.  She's  a  business  woman.  So  I  leave  her  to  your 
care.  But  remember,  she's — me." 

At  that  moment  Angus  Moraine's  cup  of  bitterness  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  He  had  seen  it  coming  from  the  out- 
set, and  he  cursed  softly  under  his  breath  as  the  millionaire 
took  his  departure. 

With  Hendrie's  going,  Monica's  thoughts  were  once  more 
free  to  think  of  that  other  interest  in  her  life.  Nor  was  she 
the  woman  to  abandon  any  course  she  had  once  embarked 
upon.  If  it  had  been  Hendrie's  pleasure  to  give  to  her,  it 
was  no  less  her  pleasure  to  complete  the  equipment  of  Frank, 
which  had  been  her  life's  endeavor.  Now,  with  all  the  means 
ready  to  hand,  she  decided  to  act  at  once.  So,  to  this  end, 
she  wrote  him  full  and  careful  instructions. 

Some  days  later  a  stranger  registered  at  the  Russell 
Hotel,  in  Everton,  which  was  a  small  hamlet  situated  on 
the  eastern  boundary  of  Hendrie's  farm.  He  was  tall  and 
young,  blue-eyed  and  fair-haired,  and  he  registered  in  the 
name  of  Frank  Smith. 

On  the  same  day  Angus  Moraine  received  word  from 
Monica's  order,  "small  hell"  reigned  among  his  foremen 
the  day.  She  said  she  intended  to  explore  the  country 
round  about;  she  wanted  to  see  something  of  its  people. 


HAPPY    DAYS  147 

With  the  coming  of  this  order  Angus  understood  that  he 
was  no  longer  master  at  Deep  Willows,  and  his  resentment 
was  silent  but  deadly.  He  had  foreseen  the  position.  He 
had  foreseen  this  ousting,  he  told  himself,  and  now  it  had 
come.  At  no  time  was  he  an  easy  man,  but  he  was  reason- 
ably fair  and  just  to  those  who  worked  under  him.  It  was 
only  in  moments  when  things  went  wrong  with  him  that  the 
harsh,  underlying  cruelty  of  his  nature  was  displayed.  Things 
had  gone  wrong  with  him  now,  and,  on  the  day  he  received 
Monica's  order,  "small  hell"  reigned  amongst  his  foremen 
and  overseers.  Just  now  he  was  going  through  an  unhappy 
time,  and  he  was  determined  that  something  of  it  should  be 
passed  on  to  those  within  his  reach. 

After  a  long  day  of  arduous  work  he  finally  threw  off  the 
yoke  of  his  labors,  and  prepared  for  his  usual  evening 
recreation.  He  had  a  fresh  horse  saddled,  and  rode  off 
down  the  river  towards  Everton. 

Here  it  was  his  nightly  custom  to  foregather,  and,  in  his 
choice,  he  proved  something  of  his  Scottish  ancestry.  He 
rarely  missed  his  evening  whisky  in  the  office  of  the  little 
hotel.  It  was  his  custom  to  sit  there  for  two  hours  or  so, 
reading  papers  and  sipping  his  drink,  listening  to,  but  rarely 
taking  part  in,  the  gossip  of  the  villagers  assembled.  The 
latter  was  partly  from  the  natural  unsociability  of  his  dis- 
position, and  partly  from  pride  of  position.  Here  he  was 
looked  upon  as  a  little  king,  and  he  was  as  vain  as  he  was 
churlish. 

He  drew  near  his  destination.  In  the  dusk  the  few  odd 
lights  of  Everton  shone  out  through  the  bluff  of  trees,  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  village  was  set.  The  man's  habit 
was  very  strong.  He  always  rode  at  a  rapid  gallop  the 
whole  of  the  six  miles  to  the  village,  and  he  always  drew  his 
horse  down  to  a  walk  at  this  point,  where  the  private  track 
from  the  farm  converged  with  the  main  trail.  The  main 
trail  was  an  old  trading  route  of  the  Indian  days  which  cut 
its  way  through  the  heart  of  Hendrie's  land.  It  followed 
the  south  bank  of  the  river  and  crossed  the  water  at  this 
point.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  this  ford  that 
the  private  road  had  been  brought  into  existence. 

Likewise,  at  this  point,  Angus  always  filled  and  lighted 
his  pipe,  a  rank-smelling  briar,  well  burnt  down  on  one 


148  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

side.  There  was  always  reason  for  what  he  did.  He  rode 
hard  to  give  himself  ample  time  for  his  evening's  recreation. 
He  walked  his  horse  at  this  point  to  cool  him  off.  He  lighted 
his  evening  pipe  here  because  he  was  beyond  the  range  of 
the  fields  of  wheat,  and  though  there  was  no  fear  of  fire  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  he  preferred  the  habit  to  the  risk 
of  inadvertently  setting  fire  to  the  crops  when  they  were 
ripened. 

He  pulled  up  his  horse  and  struck  a  match,  and,  instantly, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  evening,  became  aware  of  approaching 
wheels.  He  heard  horses  take  the  water  at  the  ford;  and 
so  unusual  was  the  phenomenon  at  this  hour  of  the  evening 
that  he  looked  down  the  converging  trail  to  see  who  was 
driving  into  the  village. 

He  heard  voices,  and  so  still  was  the  evening  that  their 
tones  came  to  him  distinctly.  Two  people  were  evidently 
in  the  vehicle;  a  man  and  a  woman. 

The  horses  had  ceased  to  splash.  He  heard  them  coming 
up  the  slope,  and,  almost  unconsciously,  he  drew  back  into 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  This  left  him  with  his  view  of  the 
other  trail  shut  off,  but,  ahead,  he  could  see  the  convergence, 
and  when  the  vehicle  passed  that  point  it  would  be  in  full 
view. 

He  waited.  The  horses  were  abreast  of  him,  beyond  the 
trees.  Suddenly  the  sound  of  their  hoofs  died  out.  They 
had  come  to  a  standstill,  and  he  heard  voices  again. 

"Oh,  Mon,  it's  been  a  glorious  day.  You  are  good  to  me. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  woman  in  the  world?" 

It  was  a  man's  voice  speaking.  Angus  had  caught  the 
name  "Mon,"  and  his  ears  strained  doubly  hard  to 
hear  all  that  passed  between  them.  Now  the  woman  was 
speaking.  He  heard  her  laugh,  a  laugh  he  perfectly  well 
knew. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  you  silly  Frank,"  she  cried.  "But 
it  has  been  a  day,  hasn't  it?  We've  had  it  all  to  ourselves, 
without  one  single  cloud  to  mar  it.  You'll  be  all  right  now. 
You  can  get  back  to  the  hotel  and  no  one  will  be  the  wiser 
for  our  meeting.  I'll  write  you  when  it  is  safe  to  come  over 
again.  It  must  be  soon.  I  want  you  with  me  so  much,  and 
it  is  perfectly  safe  when  Alec  is  away.  Good  night,  dear 
boy." 


ANGUS    HEARS    SOME    TALK  149 

Angus  heard  a  sound  and  recognized  it.  She  had  kissed 
the  man. 

The  blood  mounted  to  his  head.  Then  it  receded,  leaving 
him  cold.  He  sat  quite  still. 

A  moment  later  he  heard  the  man  walking  toward  the 
junction  of  the  roads.  Then  he  heard  the  scuffle  of  horses' 
hoofs  as  the  vehicle  was  turned  about.  And  again  he  heard 
the  animals  take  the  water. 

Still  he  sat  on. 

Presently  he  beheld  a  tall,  burly  figure  in  tweeds  emerge 
from  the  other  trail.  He  was  a  powerfully  built  man,  and, 
even  in  that  light,  he  could  see  the  thick,  fair  hair  under  the 
brim  of  the  stranger's  prairie  hat. 

"So  that's  your  game,  mam,  is  it?"  he  muttered.  "1 
guessed  Hendrie  had  made  a  mess  of  things  marrying  hi.s 
secretary.  I — wonder." 

He  waited  until  the  man  had  gained  considerable  distance. 
Then  he  lifted  the  reins,  and  permitted  his  impatient  horse 
to  walk  on  towards  the  village. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ANGUS  HEARS  SOME  TALK 

ANGUS  MORAINE'S  whole  attitude  toward  Monica  under- 
went a  sudden  change.  That  his  feelings  changed  is  doubt- 
ful. His  feelings  rarely  changed  about  anything.  However, 
where  before  an  evident,  but  tacit  antagonism  underlaid  all 
his  service  of  the  new  mistress  of  Deep  Willows,  now  he  only 
too  readily  acquiesced  to  her  lightest  wish,  and  even  went 
far  out  of  his  way  to  obtain  her  confidence,  and  inspire  her 
good  feeling  toward  him. 

The  unsuspicious  Monica  more  than  appreciated  his 
efforts.  He  was  her  husband's  trusted  employee,  he  was  a 
big  factor  in  her  husband's  affairs,  and  it  seemed  good  that 
she  should  be  taken  thus  readily  to  the  bosom  of  those  who 
served  the  man  she  loved. 

Her  days  were  hours  of  delight  that  were  all  too  short. 
Yet  with  each  passing  moment,  she  felt  that  she  was  safely 
drawing  nearer  the  completion  of  those  plans  which  she  had 


150  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

long  ago  designed  for  Frank.  She  knew  that  when  finally 
settled,  they  would  leave  her  without  the  tiniest  shadow  upon 
her  horizon. 

The  affairs  of  the  farm  she  intended  purchasing  were  well 
in  hand.  She  and  Frank  had  inspected  it  together,  and 
both  had  approved.  Now  it  w^as  only  for  the  lawyers,  whom 
Monica  had  been  careful  to  let  Frank  employ  to  complete 
the  arrangements,  and  for  the  money  she  must  provide  to 
be  forthcoming. 

In  the  meantime  there  was  much  to  discuss,  much  to  plan 
for  the  future,  and,  with  Hendrie  away,  Monica  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  see  Frank  as  often,  perhaps  more  often  than  was 
necessary.  Her  husband  always  kept  her  posted  as  to  his 
movements,  and  thus  she  was  left  perfectly  safe  and  free 
for  the  repetition  of  these  clandestine  visits. 

Had  she  only  known  that  Angus  had  recognized  her  and 
witnessed  her  parting  from  Frank  after  inspecting  the  new 
farm,  her  peace  of  mind  would  have  known  none  of  the  ease 
it  now  enjoyed.  But  she  remained  in  ignorance  of  the  fact, 
and  the  astute  Scot  was  determined  to  give  her  no  cause  for 
suspicion.  Thus  had  he  adopted  his  fresh  attitude,  but  for 
what  more  subtle  reason  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  say. 

The  change  in  his  manner  extended  in  other  directions. 
It  did  not  affect  those  who  worked  under  him,  but,  to  those 
whom  he  met  during  his  evening  recreations,  it  came  well- 
nigh  as  a  staggering  surprise. 

For  some  evenings  no  one  commented  upon  it.  Perhaps 
his  geniality  was  so  extraordinary  that  men  doubted  their 
senses,  and  wondered  if  it  were  not  a  delusion  brought  on 
by  their  mild,  nightly  potions.  But  it  continued  with  such 
definite  persistence  that  remark  at  last  found  expression. 

The  first  mention  of  it  came  from  Abe  Hopkinson,  who 
dealt  in  dry-goods  and  canned  "truck."  He  was  sitting 
with  his  feet  thrust  upon  a  table  in  the  office  of  the  Russell 
Hotel  early  one  evening.  For  some  time  he  had  been  re- 
flectively chewing.  Suddenly  his  face  flushed  with  emotion. 
He  could  stand  the  doubt  no  longer. 

"Say,"  he  cried,  thumping  one  heavily  shod  foot  upon  the 
well-worn  blotter,  and  setting  the  inkstand  rattling,  "wot's 
hit  old  leather-belly?" 

His  inelegant  inquiry  was  addressed  to  the  company  gen- 


ANGUS    HEARS    SOME    TALK  151 

erally.  Pete  Farline,  famed  for  his  bad  drugs  and  anti- 
quated "notion"  department,  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"I'm  glad  you  ast  that,  Abe,"  he  said.  "I've  been  troubled 
some.  Guessed  I'd  have  to  hit  the  water-wagon  a  piece." 

Sid  Ellerton  looked  up  from  the  pages  of  a  cheap  maga- 
zine. 

"Meaning  the  whisky  souse  from  Scotland,  via  Deep  Wil- 
lows ?"  he  asked  vaguely,  and  returned  to  his  reading. 

A  fair-haired  little  man,  by  name  Josh  Taylor,  who  spent 
his  winter  days  dissecting  frozen  beef,  and  his  summer  even- 
ings in  his  butcher's  store  smashing  flies  on  the  sides  of  beef 
with  the  flat  of  a  knife,  mildly  reproved  him. 

"Guess  you  read  too  much  fiction,  Sid.  It  makes  you 
ask  fool  questions.  Who  else  would  Abe  be  talkin'  of  but 
that  haggis-faced  moss-back  from  the  Hebrides?  Ain't  he 
made  us  all  feel  queer  these  days  an'  days  ?  Say,  he's  gettin' 
that  soft  I  get  around  dead  scared  he'll  get  a  fancy  to  kiss 
me." 

Abe  grinned  over  at  Josh's  hard  face,  with  its  unshaven 
chin,  and  his  hair  standing  rigidly  on  his  bullet  head. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'd  say  Angus  is  soft,  but ' 

A  titter  went  round  the  room  as  Abe  broke  off.  He  had 
just  seen  the  reflection  of  Angus  Moraine  in  the  broken 
mirror  which  adorned  the  opposite  wall.  He  was  standing 
in  the  doorway.  Abe  sat  wondering  how  much  of  their  talk 
the  Scot  had  overheard  when  that  individual's  voice  termin- 
ated the  moment's  merriment. 

"Feeling  good,  boys?"  he  inquired,  in  his  new  tone  of 
amiability. 

Pete  hastily  jerked  his  feet  on  to  the  top  of  the  cold  stove, 
assuming  a  nonchalant  air. 

"Feelin'  good,  Mr.  Moraine?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  I'd 
say.  Say,  this  tarnation  country's  settling  that  rapid  I  had 
a  new  customer  to-day.  Guess  I'm  figgerin'  to  start  a  drug 
trust." 

Angus  smiled  with  the  rest  as  he  moved  across  to  his 
usual  seat,  a  rigid  armchair  under  the  lamp  bracket  on  the 
wall.  The  table  bell  was  within  his  reach,  and  he  struck 
it,  and  picked  up  an  illustrated  Sunday  paper  more  than  a 
month  old. 


152  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Who  was  your  customer?"  he  asked  indifferently. 

"Why,  a  guy  that's  been  gettin'  around  a  heap  lately. 
He  stops  in  this  house  when  he  comes.  Dresses  in  fancy 
store  clothes,  and  wears  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes.  Guess  he's 
maybe  twenty  or  more.  Calls  himself  Frank  Smith.  He 
was  buyin'  fancy  perfume  for  a  lady." 

Sid  looked  up. 

"First  got  around  soon  after  Mrs.  Hendrie  come  to  the 
farm,"  he  said,  and  lost  himself  promptly  in  the  pages  of  his 
magazine. 

"I've  seen  him,"  Angus  said  quietly,  without  lifting  his 
eyes  from  the  absorbing  colored  illustrations.  "A  flash- 
looking  feller." 

"That's  him,"  cried  Pete  quickly.  "He  ain't  unlike  Mr. 
Hendrie,  only  bigger.  Guess  he's  a  deal  better  to  look  at, 
too.  Maybe  he's  a  relation  of  the  lady's." 

"Maybe,"  muttered  Angus  indifferently.  Then,  as  the 
hotel  proprietor,  who  was  also  bartender  and  anything  else 
required  in  the  service  of  his  house,  appeared  in  answer  to 
the  bell,  he  ordered  whisky,  and  nodded  comprehensively  at 
the  company.  "Take  the  orders,"  he  said  shortly. 

But  this  was  too  much.  Such  a  sensation  could  not  be 
endured  without  some  outward  expression.  Pete's  feet  fell 
off  the  stove  with  a  clatter,  and  kicked  the  loose  damper 
into  the  iron  cuspidor.  Abe  swallowed  his  chew  of  tobacco 
and  nearly  choked.  Sid  Ellerton  dropped  his  magazine, 
and,  in  his  endeavor  to  save  it  from  the  splotches  of  tobacco 
juice  on  the  floor,  shot  the  chair  from  under  him.  Un- 
fortunately the  chair  struck  Josh  violently  on  the  knee  as  it 
overturned,  and  set  the  hasty  butcher  cursing  with  a  fine 
discrimination. 

However,  these  involuntary  expressions  of  feeling  subsided 
in  time  for  each  man  to  give  his  order,  and  Lionel  K.  Sharpe, 
the  proprietor,  precipitated  himself  from  the  room  with 
his  head  whirling,  and  a  wild  fear  gripping  him  lest  Mr. 
Moraine's  bill  should  be  disputed  at  the  end  of  the  month. 

Abe  took  a  fresh  chew,  and  Pete's  feet  returned  to  the  top 
of  the  stove,  but  Josh's  knee  still  ached  when  the  drinks 
arrived.  Nor  did  poor  Sid's  loss  of  interest  in  a  love  story, 
so  hopelessly  smeared  with  tobacco  juice,  prevent  him  bright- 
ening visibly  as  he  received  his  refreshment. 


ANGUS    HEARS    SOME    TALK  153 

The  little  man  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips  and  toasted  his 
host. 

"Here's  'how,'  Mr.  Moraine,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
feeling  that,  after  all,  there  were  still  compensations  for  the 
loss  of  a  besmirched  love  story. 

The  chorus  was  taken  up  by  the  rest  of  the  company,  and 
they  all  solemnly  drank.  Somehow  there  was  a  pretty  gen- 
eral feeling  that  it  was  not  a  moment  for  levity. 

"Smith  stopping  here  now?"  inquired  Angus,  setting  his 
glass  down  a  moment  later. 

Abe  turned  to  the  tattered  register. 

"Booked  in  yesterday,"  he  said,  thumbing  down  the  page 
which  contained  the  list  of  a  whole  year's  guests.  "Ah — 
paid,"  he  added,  running  his  eye  across  to  the  "remarks" 
column.  "Guess  he's  gone.  I'd  say  that  perfume  was  a 
parting  gift  to  his  lady  friend,  Pete." 

"And  who  may  she  be?"  inquired  Angus,  innocently  turn- 
ing the  page  of  his  paper. 

No  one  answered  him.  An  exchange  of  glances  went 
round  the  room,  carefully  leaving  the  manager  out. 

Presently  Angus  looked  up. 

"Eh?"  he  demanded. 

Abe  cleared  his  throat. 

"Guess  I  don't  know  of  any  female  running  loose  around 
here.  They've  most  all  got  local  beaus,"  he  said,  while  he 
shifted  his  position  uncomfortably. 

Sid  caught  his  eye  and  shook  his  head. 

"Can't  say,"  he  observed.  "I  see  him  once  with  a  gal. 
They  wer'  a  long  piece  off.  She  was  tall  an' — an'  upstandin'. 
Didn't  just  recognize  her." 

"Guess  I  see  him  with  her,  too,"  put  in  Pete,  almost 
eagerly.  "Seen  him  several  times  with  her.  They  were  way 
out  riding.  I  was  too  far  off  to  see  them  right." 

"She  was  tall,  eh?"  said  Josh  reflectively.  "Guess  that's 
who  I  met  on  the  trail  driving  with  him.  Maybe  she  belongs 
to  one  of  the  farms." 

"Maybe,"  muttered  Angus  dryly.  "Anyway,  I  don't  guess 
it's  up  to  us  to  worry  our  heads  gray  over  him  and  his  lady 
friend.  But  it's  good  to  see  folks  coming  around.  This 
place  is  surely  going  to  boom,  fellers.  It's  going  to  be  a 
great  town,  Hendrie's  working  on  a  big  scheme  that's  going 


154  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

to  bring  the  railway  through  here,  and  set  values  going  up 
sky  high.  Don't  say  I  told  you  nothing.  I've  closed  a  deal 
in  town  lots  for  myself,  and  if  you've  got  any  spare  dollars 
I'd  advise " 

He  broke  off  and  looked  across  at  the  doorway  as  another 
townsman  came  in.  It  was  Charlie  Maybee,  the  postmaster. 

"Evening,  boys.  Evening,  Mr.  Moraine,"  he  cried,  his 
genial  face  beaming  cordially  on  everybody.  "Say,  Mr. 
Moraine,  I  guessed  maybe  I'd  find  you.  I  got  some  mail  here 
for  Mrs.  Hendrie.  It's  local,  and  addressed  to  the  post- 
office.  We  don't  get  mail  much  that  way,  so  I  thought 
I'd  hand  it  to  you.  It'll  save  the  lady  comin'  along  in 
for  it." 

He  produced  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  Angus  while 
accepting  his  invitation  to  drink. 

"Mailed  locally?"  the  manager  inquired  casually. 

"Yes,     This  morning." 

"Ah." 

The  keen-eyed  Scot  intercepted  another  exchange  of 
meaning  glances,  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with 
some  severity. 

"Say,"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  and  studied  return  to  his 
usual  dour  manner,  "some  of  you  boys  seem  to  be  saying 
one  thing  and — thinking  another.  Maybe  you  know  some- 
thing about  this  letter." 

An  instant  denial  leaped  to  everybody's  lips,  but  Angus 
was  playing  his  part  too  well  for  these  country  town-folk. 
He  maintained  his  atmosphere  of  displeasure  and  suspicion, 
and  finally  the  impulsive  butcher  cleared  his  throat. 

"Pshaw!"  he  exclaimed  nervously.  "What's  the  use 
beatin'  around?  We're  all  good  friends  right  here,  an'  we 
all  feel  that  we  owe  Mr.  Hendrie  a  mighty  lot  for  what  he's 
doing  for  this  city.  An',  I  guess,  when  there's  things  goin' 
on  that  don't  seem  right  by  him  it's  up  to  us  to  open  our 
mouths.  We  don't  know  a  thing  about  that  letter,  Mr. 
Moraine,  but  it  just  fits  in  with  things  we  do  know — all  of 
us.  We  know  that  just  as  soon  as  Mr.  Hendrie  disappears 
from  the  farm  some  other  feller  appears,  and  his  name's 
Frank  Smith,  and  he  mostly  gets  around  riding  and  driving 
with  Mrs.  Hendrie.  That's  what  we  know." 

The  butcher's  forehead  was  beaded  with  perspiration  as 


THE    WHEAT    TRUST  155 

he  came  to  the  end  of  his  statement,  but  he  stared  defiantly 
round  at  the  disapproving  faces  of  his  friends. 

Angus  fixed  him  with  a  stern  eye. 

"You  surely  do  know  a  lot,"  he  exclaimed,  with  angry 
sarcasm.  "And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  know  a  lot — too. 
This  is  what  I  know.  What  you're  saying  is  a  damned 
scandal.  Do  you  get  me?  A  damned  scandal,"  he  reiter- 
ated. "And  if  I  told  Mr.  Hendrie  he'd  have  you  all  for 
criminal  libel — or  worse.  Now,  see  here,"  he  went  on,  after 
a  dramatic  pause,  "I  tell  you  plainly — if  I  ever  hear  another 
breath  of  the  like  of  this  yarn  going  around  I'll  see  that 
Mr.  Hendrie  has  you  all  lagged  for  a  pack  of  libelous  rascals 
who  ought  to  be  in  penitentiary." 

He  finished  up  his  angry  denunciation  by  bringing  his 
clenched  fist  down  on  the  table  bell  with  a  force  that  brought 
Mr.  Sharpe  flying  into  the  room  on  the  dead  run,  and  left 
the  shamefaced  townsmen  glowering  upon  the  flaming  face 
of  their  unfortunate  comrade. 

But  the  sensations  of  the  evening  did  not  end  here.  Angus 
furnished  them  with  another,  even  greater  than  those  which 
had  preceded  it. 

"Take  the  orders — again!"  he  cried,  as  though  hurling  a 
challenge,  and  daring  any  one  to  refuse  his  hospitality. 

And  such  was  the  apprehension  his  manner  inspired  in 
the  hearts  of  the  gathered  scandal-mongers,  that  all  selection 
was  reduced  to  a  general  call  for  whisky,  that  being  the  only 
refreshment  their  confused  brains  could  think  of  under  such 
a  dreadful  strain, 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  WHEAT  TRUST 

MONICA  leaned  forward  in  her  saddle  as  her  well-trained 
broncho  came  to  a  stand.  She  set  her  elbow  on  her  knee, 
and  the  oval  of  her  pensive  face  found  a  resting  place  in 
the  palm  of  her  hand.  Thus  she  sat  gazing  out  over  the 
golden  world,  which  rustled  and  rippled  in  the  lightest  of 
summer  zephyrs,  chanting  its  whispered  song  of  prosperity 
to  the  delight  of  her  listening  ears. 

Summer  was  nearing  its  height  and  a  perfect  day  shone 


156  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

down  upon  the  world.  There  was  no  cloud  to  mar  the  per- 
fect azure  of  the  sky,  or  shadow  the  ripening  sun.  The 
lightest  of  summer  breezes  scarcely  stirred  the  perfumed  air, 
which  she  drank  in,  in  deep  breaths,  her  whole  being  per- 
vaded with  the  joy  of  living. 

Everywhere  about  her  spread  out  this  rippling  sea  of 
golden  wheat.  Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  in  the  vague  heat 
haze  which  hovered  over  the  distant  line  of  nodding  grain, 
it  washed  the  shores  of  an  indefinite  horizon,  a  monument 
to  one  man's  genius,  a  testimony  to  the  unflinching  deter- 
mination with  which  he  faced  the  world  and  wrested  from 
life  all  those  things  his  heart  was  set  upon. 

A  great  pride  stirred  within  her.  It  was  a  worthy  labor; 
it  wras  magnificent.  Was  there  another  man  in  the  world 
comparable  with  this  great  husband  of  hers?  She  thought 
not.  His  was  the  brain  which  had  conceived  the  stupendous 
scheme ;  his  was  the  guiding  hand  which  had  organized  this 
vast  feeding-ground  of  a  hungry  world ;  his  was  the  courage 
that  feared  neither  failure  nor  disaster;  his  was  the  driving 
force  which  carried  him  on,  surmounting  every  difficulty,  or 
thrusting  them  ruthlessly  from  his  path. 

What  other  schemes  yet  lay  behind  his  steady  eyes  await- 
ing the  moment  of  decision  for  their  operation?  She  won- 
dered; and  wondering  smiled,  confident  in  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  yet  worlds  to  conquer,  and  that  she  would  share 
in  his  victories.  It  all  seemed  very,  very  wonderful  to  this 
woman  who,  all  her  life,  had  only  known  desperate  struggles 
for  her  bare  needs. 

Suddenly  she  sat  up  and  flung  her  arms  wide  open,  as 
though  in  a  wild  desire  to  take  to  her  bosom  the  whole  world 
about  her.  Then  she  laughed  aloud,  a  joyous,  happy  laugh, 
and  set  her  horse  galloping  toward  her  home.  She  loved  it 
all,  every  acre  of  it,  every  golden  ear,  every  red  grain  that 
grew  there.  She  loved  it  because  of — him. 

Her  delight  culminated  as  she  reached  the  house.  As  the 
man-servant  stepped  forward  to  assist  her  to  dismount  he 
gave  her  the  only  information  that  could  have  added  to  her 
happiness  at  such  a  moment. 

"Mr.  Hendrie  is  home,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "He's  in  the 
office,  awaiting  your  return." 

Monica  sprang  to  the  ground  with  an  exclamation  which, 


THE    WHEAT    TRUST  157 

even  to  the  well-trained  footman,  conveyed  something  of  her 
feelings,  and  ran  into  the  house.  In  a  moment,  almost,  she 
was  in  her  husband's  arms,  and  returning  his  caresses. 

"I  made  home  sooner  than  I  hoped,  Mon,"  he  said,  the 
moment  of  their  greeting  over. 

The  woman's  smiling  eyes  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"Yes.  And  I'm  so  glad.  You  said  not  until  Thursday 
next,  and  this  is  only  Saturday.  You  were  full  of  a  tremend- 
ous business  in  your  letter  last  Tuesday.  Something  you 
couldn't  trust  to  paper." 

The  man  smiled,  but  his  powerful  features  wore  that  set 
look  which  Monica  had  long  ago  learned  to  understand 
meant  the  machine-like  working  of  the  brain  behind  it  on 
some  matter  which  occupied  his  whole  attention. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  in  his  sparing  manner  when  dealing 
with  affairs.  "Trust." 

"Trust?"  Monica  echoed  the  word,  her  eyes  widening 
with  inquiry. 

Hendrie  nodded. 

"This  has  been  a  secret  I've  kept — even  from  you,"  he 
said.  "From  the  moment  you  promised  to  be  my  wife,  why, 
I  just  determined  to  turn  all  my  wheat  interests  into  one 
huge  trust.  I  determined  to  organize  it,  and  become  its 
president  for  a  while.  After  it's  good  and  going — maybe 
I'll  retire  from  active  service  and — just  hand  over  the  rest 
of  my  life  to  you,  and  to  those  things  which  are,  perhaps, 
more  worth  doing — than — than,  well,  growing  wheat." 

The  woman's  face  was  a  study  in  emotion. 

"Oh,  Alec,"  she  cried.  "You — you  are  doing  this  for — 
me?" 

"I'm  doing  this,  Mon,  because  I  guess  you've  taught  me 
something  my  eyes  have  been  mostly  blind  to.  I'm  doing 
this  because  I'm  learning  things  I  didn't  know  before.  One 
of  them's  this.  The  satisfaction  of  piling  up  a  fortune  has 
its  limit.  Maybe  I've  reached  that  limit.  Anyway  I  seem 
to  be  groping  around  for  something  else — something  better. 
Guess  I'm  not  just  clear  about  things  yet.  But — well,  may- 
be, seeing  you've  made  things  look  different,  you'll  help  me 
— sort  it  out." 

While  he  was  speaking  Monica  had  turned  away  to  the 
window  which  looked  out  upon  the  beautiful  stream  far 


158  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

below  them.  Now  she  turned,  and  all  her  love  was  shining 
in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Alec,"  she  cried  earnestly,  "I  thank  God  that  this 
is  so.  With  all  my  heart  I  thank  Him  that  this  wonderful 
new  feeling  has  come  through — me." 

After  that  the  man's  attitude  changed  again  to  the  cool, 
yet  forceful  method  which  had  made  him  the  financial  prince 
he  was.  Nor,  as  she  noted  the  swift  changing  of  his  moods, 
could  Monica  help  remembering  that  other  change  she  had 
once  witnessed.  That  moment  when  on  the  discovery  of 
Frank's  picture  in  her  apartments  he  had  been  changed  in 
a  flash  from  the  perfect  lover  to  a  demon  of  jealous  fury. 
She  felt  that  she  had  untold  depths  to  fathom  yet,  before 
she  could  hope  to  understand  the  mysteries  of  this  man's 
soul. 

She  listened  to  him  now  with  all  her  business  faculties 
alert.  Once  more  he  was  the  employer,  and  she  the  humble 
but  willing  secretary. 

"I  have  practically  finished  the  preliminaries  of  this 
trust,"  he  said.  "When  it's  fixed  there'll  be  a  bit  of  a  shout. 
Bound  to  be.  But  I  don't  guess  that  matters  any.  What 
really  does  matter  is  the  result,  and  how  it's  going  to  affect 
the  public.  My  principles  are  sound,  and — wholesome.  We're 
not  looking  for  big  lumps  of  profit.  We're  not  out  to  rob 
the  world  of  one  cent.  We  are  out  to  protect — the  public 
as  well  as  ourselves.  And  the  protection  we  both  need  is 
against  those  manipulators  of  the  market  like  Henry  Louth, 
and  other  unscrupulous  speculators.  In  time  I'm  hoping 
to  make  the  trust  world-wide.  Meanwhile  eighty  per  cent. 
of  the  grain  growers  of  this  country,  and  the  northwestern 
states  across  the  border,  are  ready  to  come  in.  For  the  rest 
it's  just  a  question  of  time  before  they  are  forced  to.  Such 
will  be  the  supplies  of  grain  from  our  control  in  a  few  years 
that  we  can  practically  collar  the  market.  Then,  when  the 
organization  is  complete,  and  the  wheat  growers  are  uni- 
versally bonded  together,  there's  going  to  be  no  middle  man, 
and  the  public  will  pay  less  for  its  bread,  and  the  growers 
will  reap  greater  profits.  That's  my  scheme.  I  tell  you 
right  here  no  one's  a  right  to  come  between  the  producer 
and  the  consumer.  The  man  who  does  so  is  a  vampire,  and 
has  no  right  to  exist.  He  sits  in  his  office  and  grows  fat, 


THE    WHEAT    TRUST  159 

sucking  the  blood  of  both  the  toiler  in  the  field  and  the 
toiler  in  the  city.  He  must  go." 

Monica  clasped  her  hands  in  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
Hendrie  always  inspired  her.  She  knew  he  was  no  dreamer, 
but  a  man  capable  of  putting  into  practice  the  schemes  of 
his  essentially  commercial  genius. 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  cried.  "It  is  immense.  I  have  always 
known  that  if  only  a  man  with  sufficient  courage  and  in- 
fluence and  capital  could  be  found  some  such  scheme  might 
be  operated.  And  you — you  have  thought  of  it  all  the  time. 
It  has  been  your  secret.  And  now ' 

"Now?  Now  I'm  going  to  ask  for  your  contribution." 
Hendrie  smiled.  "Ah,  Mon,  I  can't  do  without  you.  I  am 
going  to  set  you  a  task  that'll  tax  all  your  capacity  and 
devotion  to  me.  You've  got  to  run  this  great  farm  of  ours. 
Oh,  you  haven't  got  to  be  a  farmer,"  he  said  quickly,  at 
sight  of  the  woman's  blank  look.  "You  will  have  the  same 
army  of  helpers  under  you  that  Angus  has.  It  will  be  for 
you  to  see  that  the  work  is  done.  Guess  yours  will  just  be 
the  organizing  head.  I'll  need  Angus  in  Winnipeg.  He  is 
a  man  of  big  capacity  for  the  work  I  need.  You  see,  I 
know  I  can  trust  him  in  things  that  I  could  trust  to  no  other 
man." 

Hendrie  rose  from  his  seat  at  the  writing  table,  and 
pressed  a  bell. 

"I'll  send  for  him  now,"  he  explained. 

Monica  came  to  his  side,  and  laid  a  shaking  hand  upon 
his  shoulder.  Habit  was  strong  in  her.  She  could  not  alto- 
gether forget  that  he  was  no  longer  her  employer.  She 
approached  him  now  in  something  of  the  old  spirit. 

"Could  not  I  do  the  work  in  Winnipeg?"  she  asked  timidly. 
"Would  it  not  be  wiser  to  leave  Angus ?" 

Hendrie's  keen  eyes  looked  straight  down  into  hers. 

"We  are  battling  with  hard  fighting  men  who  demand 
cent  per  cent  for  their  money,  and  can  only  get  a  fair  in- 
terest," he  said.  "They  must  be  dealt  with  by  men  as  hard 
as  themselves.  No,  it's  not  woman's  work.  Angus  is  the 
hardest  man  of  business  I  know.  I  can  trust  him.  There- 
fore I  require  him — even  in  preference  to  you." 

Monica  bowed  her  head.  She  accepted  his  verdict  in  this 
as  in  all  things. 


160  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply.  "I  think  I  understand."  Then 
she  went  on  in  a  thrilling  voice.  "But  I  am  glad  there  is 
work  for  me  to  do.  So  glad.  Oh,  Alec,  you  are  making  me 
a  factor  in  this  great  affair.  You  have  allotted  me  my  work 
in  an  epoch-making  financial  enterprise,  and  I — I  am  very 
thankful." 

Her  husband  stooped  and  kissed  her.  Then  he  patted 
her  on  the  shoulder,  as  he  might  have  done  when  she  was  his 
secretary. 

"Good,  Mon,"  he  said,  in  the  calm  tone  of  approval  Mon- 
ica knew  so  well.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  seat. 

At  that  moment  Angus  Moraine  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. His  coming  was  swift  and  silent,  and,  for  the  first  time 
since  she  had  known  him,  his  cold  face  and  colder  eyes  struck 
unpleasantly  upon  the  woman  who  was  to  supersede  him. 

Hendrie  looked  up,  and,  in  one  swift  glance,  noted  all 
that  Monica  had  seen  in  the  manager's  face  without  being 
in  the  least  affected  by  it.  He  knew  this  man  better  than 
it  is  generally  given  to  one  man  to  know  another.  He  adopted 
no  roundabout  methods  now. 

"I'm  going  to  take  this  place  out  of  your  hands,  Angus, 
my  boy,"  he  said  easily.  "I  want  you  in  Winnipeg.  I  have 
a  big  coup  on,  which  I  will  explain  to  you  later.  The  essen- 
tial point  is  that  I  want  you  in  Winnipeg.  You  must  be 
ready  in  one  month's  time.  The  appointment  will  be  to 
your  advantage.  Get  me?"  Then  he  smiled  coolly.  "A 
month  will  give  you  time  to  arrange  your  various  wheat 
interests  about  here." 

Angus  displayed  no  emotion  of  any  sort.  That  the 
change  was  distasteful  to  him  there  could  be  no  doubt.  He 
had  expected  some  such  result  with  Monica's  appearance 
on  the  scene.  Nor  did  the  millionaire's  knowledge  of  his 
private  interests  disconcert  him.  It  was  not  easy  to  take 
this  man  off  his  guard. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply,  and  left  the  other  to  do  the  talking. 

But  Hendrie  turned  again  to  his  desk  as  though  about 
to  write. 

"That's  all,"  he  said  shortly. 

Angus  made  no  attempt  to  retire.  Just  for  one  second 
his  eyes  shot  a  swift  glance  in  Monica's  direction.  She  was 
standing  at  the  window  with  her  back  turned. 


THE    WHEAT    TRUST  161 

"Who  supersedes  me  here?"  he  demanded.  There  was 
no  warmth  in  Moraine's  somewhat  jarring  voice.  Monica 
looked  round. 

Hendrie  raised  his  massive  head. 

"Eh?  Oh — my  wife."  And  he  turned  to  his  writing 
again. 

Angus  abruptly  thrust  a  hand  into  his  breast  pocket  and 
turned  deliberately  to  Monica. 

"I  met  May  bee  last  night — the  postmaster,"  he  said, 
drawing  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  "He  handed  me  this  mail, 
addressed  to  the  post  office,  for  you,  Mrs.  Hendrie.  He 
asked  me  to  hand  it  to  you.  Guess  I  forgot  it  this  morning. 
P'raps  it's  not  important — seeing  it  was  addressed  to  the 
post  office." 

For  the  life  of  her,  Monica  could  not  control  the  color 
of  her  cheeks,  and  Angus  was  quick  to  note  their  sudden 
pallor  as  he  stood  with  the  letter  held  out  toward  her. 

She  took  it  from  him  with  a  hand  that  was  unsteady. 
Neither  did  this  escape  the  cold  eyes  of  the  man. 

Monica  knew  from  whom  the  letter  came.  She  knew  with- 
out even  glancing  at  the  handwriting.  Why  had  Frank 
written?  She  had  seen  him  two  evenings  ago,  and  settled 
everything.  She  was  terrified  lest  her  husband  should  ques- 
tion her. 

"Did  he  do  right — sending  it  up?"  There  was  a  subtle 
irony  in  the  Scot's  cold  words  that  did  not  escape  the  ears 
of  the  millionaire.  He  looked  round. 

Without  looking  in  her  husband's  direction  Monica  became 
aware  of  his  interest.  With  a  great  effort  she  pulled  herself 
together. 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Moraine,"  she  said  steadily,  now  smiling 
in  her  most  gracious  manner.  "And  thank  you  very  much 
for  taking  such  trouble.  It  has  saved  me  a  journey." 

Angus  abruptly  withdrew.  Nor  was  he  quite  sure  whether 
he  had  achieved  his  purpose.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  house 
his  doubt  was  still  in  his  eyes.  Nor,  to  judge  by  his  general 
expression,  was  that  purpose  a  kindly  one. 

The  moment  the  door  closed  behind  Angus,  Hendrie  swung 
round  in  his  chair. 

"Letters  addressed  to  the  post  office  ?    Why  ?"    His  steady 

eyes  looked  up  into  his  wife's  face  with  an  intentness  that 
12 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

suddenly  reminded  her  of  the  dreadful  display  of  jealousy 
she  had  witnessed  once  before. 

It  was  a  desperate  moment,  It  was  one  of  those  moments 
when  it  would  have  been  far  better  to  forget  all  else,  and 
remember  only  her  love  for  her  husband,  and  trust  to  that 
alone.  It  was  a  moment  when  in  a  flash  she  saw  the  deadly 
side  of  the  innocent  deception  she  was  practicing.  It  was 
a  moment  when  her  soul  cried  out  to  her  that  she  was 
definitely,  criminally  wrong  in  the  course  she  had  marked 
out  for  herself.  And,  in  that  moment,  two  roads  distinctly 
opened  up  before  her  mind's  eye.  One  was  narrow  and 
threatening ;  the  other,  well,  it  looked  the  broader  and  easier 
of  the  two,  and  she  plunged  headlong  down  it. 

She  smiled  back  into  his  face.  She  held  up  the  letter  and 
waved  it  at  him.  She  was  acting.  She  bitterly  knew  she 
was  acting. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  with  a  gayety  she  forced  herself  to.  "You 
must  have  your  big  secrets  from  me,  I  must  have  my  little 
ones  from  you.  That's  only  fair.'* 

Hendrie  smiled,  but  without  warmth. 

"Why,  it's  fair  enough,  but — I  told  you  my  secret." 

Monica's  laugh  rippled  pleasantly  in  his  ears. 

"So  you  did.  I'd  forgotten  that."  Then  she  gave  an 
exaggerated  sigh.  "Then  I  s'pose  I  must  tell  you  mine. 
And  I  did  so  want  to  surprise  you  with  it.  You  have  always 
told  me  that  I  am  a — clever  business  woman,  haven't  you?" 

Hendrie  nodded. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  his  manner  relaxing. 

"You  settled  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  on  me  when 
we  were  married — all  to  myself,  'to  squander  as  quickly  as 
you  like.'  Those  were  your  words.  Well,  I  just  wanted  to 
show  you  that  I  am  not  one  to  squander  money.  I  am  in- 
vesting some  of  it  in  a  concern  that  is  to  show  a  handsome 
profit.  The  letter  is  from  the  man  who  is  to  handle  the 
matter  for  me.  Oh,  dear,  you've  robbed  me  of  all  my  fun. 
It  is  a  shame.  I — I'm  disappointed." 

Hendrie  rose,  smiling.  The  reaction  from  his  moment  of 
suspicion  was  intensely  marked.  He  came  over  to  her. 

"May  I  see  it?"  he  asked. 

Monica  risked  all  on  her  one  final  card. 

"Oh,  don't  rob  me  of  the  last  little  bit  of  my  secret,"  she 


MONICA'S    FALSE    STEP  168 

cried.  Then  she  promptly  held  the  letter  out.  "Why,  of 
course  you  can  read  it — if  you  want  to." 

She  waited  almost  breathlessly  for  the  verdict.  If  the 
suspense  were  prolonged  she  felt  that  she  must  collapse.  A 
dreadful  faintness  was  stealing  over  her,  a  faintness  she 
was  powerless  to  fight  against.  But  the  suspense  was  not 
prolonged,  and  the  verdict  came  to  her  ears  as  though  from 
afar  off. 

"Keep  your  little  secret,  Mon,"  she  heard  her  husband 
say.  "It's  good  to  give  surprises — when  they're  pleasant. 
Forgive  me  worrying  you,  but — but  I  think  my  love  for 

you  is  a  sort  of  madness — I '  She  felt  his  great  arms 

suddenly  thrust  about  her  and  was  thankful  for  their  sup- 
port. 


CHAPTER  X 

MONICA'S  FALSE  STEP 

ALEXANDER  HENDRIE  spent  only  two  short  days  at  the 
farm  before  he  was  called  away  on  a  flying  visit  to  the  seat 
of  his  operations  at  Winnipeg.  But  during  those  two  days 
there  was  no  rest  for  him ;  his  business  pursued  him  through 
mail  and  over  wire,  and  the  jarring  note  of  the  telephone 
became  anathema  to  the  entire  household  at  Deep  Willows. 

The  announcement  of  his  going  came  as  no  surprise  to 
Monica.  She  was  prepared  for  anything  in  that  way.  She 
knew  that  in  the  days  to  come  she  was  likely  to  see  less  and 
less  of  her  husband,  the  penalty  of  her  marriage  to  a  man 
engaged  in  such  monumental  financial  undertakings  as  his 
She  was  careful  to  offer  no  protest;  she  even  avoided  ex- 
pressing the  genuine  regret  she  felt.  It  was  the  best  way 
she  could  serve  him,  she  felt,  forgetful  of  the  possibility  of 
her  attitude  being  otherwise  interpreted.  To  her,  any  such 
display  could  only  be  a  hindrance,  a  deterrent  to  him,  and, 
as  such,  would  be  unfair,  would  not  be  worthy  of  her  as  a 
helper  in  his  great  schemes. 

From  the  moment  she  learned  that  she  was  to  take  charge 
of  the  farm  at  Deep  Willows  she  began  to  prepare  herself; 
and  with  her  husband's  going,  she  was  left  even  freer  still 
to  pursue  the  knowledge  she  had  yet  to  acquire  for  her  new 


164  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

responsibility.  Her  time  was  spent  almost  wholly  out  of 
doors ;  and  such  was  her  enthusiasm  that  daylight  was  none 
too  early  to  find  her  in  the  saddle,  riding  round  the  re- 
moter limits  of  the  farm,  watching  and  studying  every  de- 
tail of  the  work  which  was  so  soon  to  become  her  charge. 

That  she  reveled  in  the  new  life  opening  out  before  her 
there  could  be  little  doubt.  Her  rounded  cheeks  and  seri- 
ous eyes,  the  perfect  balance  of  her  keen  mind  and  health- 
fulness  of  body  all  bore  testimony  to  its  beneficial  effects 
upon  a  nature  eager  to  come  to  grips  with  the  world's  work. 

She  had  quite  shaken  off  the  effect  of  that  moment  of 
panic  when  the  preservation  of  her  innocent  secret  had 
hovered  in  the  balance.  Well  enough  she  knew  how  des- 
perately all  this  happy  life  of  hers  had  been  jeopardized  by 
the  coming  of  Frank's  letter  through  the  hands  of  Angus 
Moraine.  Had  her  husband  only  taken  her  at  her  word, 
opened  it  and  read  the  heading,  "Dearest  mother" — well,  he 
hadn't.  And  she  thanked  her  God  for  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment  that  had  prompted  her  to  offer  him  the  letter  to 
read,  and  for  the  power  and  restraint  which  had  been  vouch- 
safed her  to  weather  the  threatening  storm  of  almost  insane 
jealousy  she  had  witnessed  growing  in  her  passionate  hus- 
band's eyes. 

But  it  had  served  her  as  a  lesson,  and  she  was  determined 
to  take  no  further  risks.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
see  Frank  once  more  to  hand  him  the  purchase  money  for 
the  farm,  and  his  starting  capital.  She  dared  not  risk  the 
mail,  and  to  pay  him  by  check  would  be  to  court  prompt 
disaster.  Yes,  she  must  see  him  that  once  more,  and,  after 
that,  though  it  might  wrench  her  feelings  to  the  limit,  Frank 
must  pursue  his  career  with  only  her  distant  eye  watching 
over  him. 

So  her  mind  was  made  up,  swiftly,  calmly,  after  a  careful 
study  of  the  position.  She  arrived  at  her  decision  through 
no  selfishness.  Rather  was  it  the  reverse.  She  was  sacri- 
ficing herself  to  her  husband  and  her  boy.  To  do  otherwise 
was  to  risk  wrecking  her  husband's  happiness  as  well  as  her 
own,  and  to  start  Frank  in  life  with  Alexander  Hendrie  as 
a  possible  enemy  would  be  far  too  severe  a  handicap. 

Now,  as  she  rode  round  the  western  limits  of  the  grain- 
lands  she  was  occupied  with  thoughts  of  the  Trust,  nor  could 


MONICA'S    FALSE    STEP  165 

her  devoted  woman's  mind  fail  to  dwell  more  upon  the  man 
than  his  work. 

He  had  told  her  that  his  new  aspect  of  life  had  been  in- 
spired by  her,  and  the  memory  of  his  words  still  thrilled  her. 
That  she  was  his  influence  for  good  filled  her  with  a  great 
and  happy  contentment.  She  felt  that  to  be  such  to  the 
man  she  loved  was  in  itself  worth  living  for.  But  he  had 
plainly  shown  her  how  much  more  she  could  be  to  him  than 
that.  Could  any  woman  ask  more  than  to  be  a  partner  in 
the  works  his  genius  conceived?  No;  and  in  this  thought 
lay  the  priceless  jewel  adorning  her  crown  of  womanhood. 

She  was  watching  a  number  of  teams  and  their  drivers 
moving  out  to  a  distant  hay  slough.  Forty  teams  of  finely 
bred  Shire  horses  moving  out  from  the  farm  with  stately 
gait,  each  driver  sitting  astride  of  his  nearside  horse's  com- 
fortable back.  She  knew  the  mowers  were  already  in  the 
slough,  where  haying  had  been  going  on  for  days.  It  was 
a  fine  string  of  horses,  but  it  was  the  merest  detail  of  the 
stud  which  was  kept  up  to  carry  on  the  work  of  the  farm. 
And  beside  all  this  horse  power  there  were  the  steam  plows, 
reapers  and  binders,  threshers.  The  wonders  of  the  organi- 
zation were  almost  inexhaustible. 

The  horses  passed  her  by  and  vanished  into  a  dip  in  the 
rolling  plains.  Their  long  day  had  begun,  but  unlike  Mon- 
ica, they  possessed  no  other  incentive  than  to  demonstrate 
the  necessity  of  their  existence. 

As  yet  the  sun  had  only  just  cleared  the  horizon,  and  the 
chill  of  the  morning  air  had  not  tempered  towards  the  heat 
of  the  coming  day.  Monica  felt  the  chill,  and,  as  soon  as 
the  horses  had  passed  her,  she  lifted  her  reins  to  continue 
her  round. 

At  that  moment  she  became  aware  of  a  horseman  riding 
at  a  gallop  from  the  direction  of  the  farm,  and,  furthermore, 
she  recognized  him  at  once  as  Angus  Moraine,  evidently 
about  to  visit  the  scene  of  the  haying. 

She  waited  for  him  to  come  up,  and  greeted  him  pleasantly, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  since  the  incident  of  the  letter,  her 
feelings  toward  him  had  undergone  serious  revision. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Moraine,"  she  cried,  as  the  man 
reined  his  horse  in.  "They're  out  promptly,"  she  added, 
following  the  trail  of  the  haying  gang  with  her  eyes. 


166  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Angus  looked  after  them,  too,  and  his  thin  lips  twisted 
wryly. 

"They  need  to  be,"  he  declared  coldly.  "There's  one  time 
for  farm  work  to  start,  Mrs.  Hendrie — that's  daylight." 

"Yes.     I  suppose  there's  no  deviation  from  that  rule." 

"None.  And  we  pay  off  instantly  any  one  who  thinks 
differently." 

"There's  no  excuse?" 

Angus  shook  his  head. 

"None  whatever.  If  a  man's  ill  we  lay  him  off — until  he's 
better.  But  they  never  are  ill.  They  haven't  time." 

Monica  surveyed  the  Scot  with  interest.  Her  husband's 
opinion  of  him  carried  good  weight. 

"You  run  this  place  with  a  somewhat  steely  rule,"  she 
said.  "These  men  are  so  many  machines,  the  horses,  too. 
Each  has  to  produce  so  much  work.  The  work  you  set  for 
them." 

Angus's  eyes  were  turned  reflectively  upon  the  horizon. 

"You're  thinking  I'm  a  hard  man  to  work  for,"  he  said. 
"Maybe  I  am."  He  glanced  back  at  the  miles  of  wheat,  and 
Monica  thought  she  detected  something  almost  soft  in  the 
expression  of  his  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  went  on,  "they're  ma- 
chines of  sorts.  But  the  work  any  man  on  this  farm  has 
to  do  is  work  I  can  do — have  done,  both  in  quantity  and 
kind.  As  for  the  horses,  I'm  thinking  of  building  a  smaller 
sick  barn.  The  one  we've  got  is  a  waste  of  valuable  room, 
it's  so  rarely  used."  He  shook  his  head.  "There's  just 
one  way  to  run  a  big  farm,  Mrs.  Hendrie.  It's  the  hardest 
work  I  know,  and  the  boss  has  got  to  work  just  as  hard  as 
the  least  paid  'choreman.5  " 

"I  think — I  feel  that,"  Monica  agreed  cordially.  "The 
work  must  be  done  in  season.  And  it's  man's  work." 

Angus  calmed  his  restive  horse. 

"You're  right,  mam,"  he  exclaimed,  with  almost  unneces- 
sary eagerness.  "It  is  man's  work — not  woman's."  He 
looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  Monica  accepted  the 
challenge. 

"You  mean  I  am  not  the  fit  person  to  step  into  your 
shoes,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

Her  smile  in  no  way  disconcerted  the  other.  He  returned 
her  look,  while  his  hard  mouth  twisted  in  its  wry  fashion. 


MONICA'S    FALSE    STEP  167 

"P'raps  I  was  thinking  that;  p'raps  I  was  thinking  of 
something  else.  I'll  not  say  you  can't  run  this  show.  But 
I'll  say  a  woman  oughtn't  to." 

"And  why  not?" 

Monica's  demand  came  sharply,  but  even  while  she  made 
it  she  realized  the  man's  hard,  muscular  figure  as  he  sat 
there  in  his  saddle,  with  his  thin  shirt  open  at  his  bronzed 
neck,  and  the  cords  of  muscle  standing  out  on  his  spare, 
bare  arms.  She  understood  her  own  bodily  weakness  com- 
pared to  his  strength,  and  acknowledged  to  herself  the  justice 
of  his  assertion. 

"Do  you  need  to  ask,  mam?"  Angus  retorted,  with  just 
a  suspicion  of  contempt.  "Could  you  handle  these  guys 
when  they  get  on  the  buck?  Could  you  talk  to  'em?  Could 
you  talk  to  'em  the  way  they  understand?" 

Monica's  eyes  flashed. 

"I  think  so." 

"Then  you're  thinking  ten  times  wrong,  mam,"  came  the 
manager's  prompt  and  emphatic  retort.  "You'll  have  hell 
all  around  you  in  a  day." 

Moraine's  manner  was  becoming  more  aggressive,  and 
Monica  was  losing  patience. 

"You're  not  encouraging,  but  you're  quite  wrong.  I 
can  assure  you  I  can  run  this  farm  with  just  as  stern  a 
discipline  as  you.  Perhaps  you  have  yet  to  learn  that  a 
woman's  discipline  can  be  far  harsher,  if  need  be,  than  any 
man's.  Evidentlv  you  have  not  had  much  to  do  with  women. 
Believe  me,  my  sex  are  by  no  means  the  angels  some  people 
would  have  you  believe/* 

"No." 

The  man's  negative  came  in  such  a  peculiar,  almost  in- 
solent tone  that  Monica  was  startled.  She  looked  at  him, 
and,  as  she  did  so,  beheld  an  unpleasantly  ironical  light  in 
his  cold  eyes.  She  interpreted  this  attitude  in  her  own 
way. 

"You  seem  to  feel  leaving  your  control  here,"  she  said 
sharply. 

The  man's  expression  underwent  a  prompt  change.  He 
was  her  husband's  employee  once  more.  The  insolent  irony 
had  utterly  vanished  out  of  his  eyes. 

"I  do,  mam,"  he  said  earnestly.     "I  feel  it  a  heap — and 


170      THE  WAY  OF  THE  STRONG 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHICH  DEALS  WITH  A  CHANCE  MEETING 

MONICA  was  more  disconcerted  than  she  knew,  and  finally 
set  her  horse  at  a  gallop  across  country,  regardless  of 
whither  her  course  might  take  her.  Nor  did  she  pause  to 
consider  her  whereabouts  until  the  wheat  lands  were  left  sev- 
eral miles  behind  her,  and  she  found  herself  entering  the 
woods  which  lined  the  deep  cutting  of  a  remote  prairie  creek. 
Here  she  drew  rein  and  glanced  about  her  for  guidance. 

She  looked  back  the  way  she  had  come,  but  the  wheat 
fields  were  lost  behind  a  gently  undulating  horizon  of  grass. 
Ahead  of  her,  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  wide-mouthed 
cutting  of  the  creek  stretched  away  toward  a  ridge  of  purple 
hills.  To  the  right  of  her  was  the  waving  grass  of  the 
prairie,  miles  and  miles  of  it,  without  the  tiniest  object  on 
it  to  break  the  green  monotony. 

She  gazed  out  over  the  latter  with  mildly  appreciative 
eyes.  Her  ride  had  done  her  good.  Something  of  the  effect 
of  Angus  upon  her  had  worn  off.  She  almost  sympathized 
with  him  as  she  dwelt  upon  the  reason  of  his  rudeness  to  her. 

Presently  she  turned  about.  Her  breakfastless  condition 
was  making  itself  felt,  and,  anyway,  she  had  wasted  enough 
time.  She  would  return  home  and  breakfast,  and,  after 
that,  with  a  fresh  horse,  she  would  continue  her  round  of 
the  farm. 

She  was  about  to  put  her  purpose  into  operation  when 
the  sound  of  wheels  coming  up  from  the  creek  below  drew 
her  attention.  At  the  same  instant  her  horse  pricked  its 
ears  and  neighed.  A  responsive  neigh  echoed  the  creature's 
greeting,  and,  the  next  moment,  a  single-horse  buckboard 
appeared  over  the  shoulder  of  the  cutting. 

Instead  of  moving  on,  Monica  was  held  fascinated  by  the 
apparition.  The  spectacle  of  this  solitary  traveler  was  too 
interesting  to  be  left  uninvestigated ;  and  she  smiled  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  girlish  occupant  of  the  vehicle.  The 
stranger's  face  was  shadowed  under  a  linen  sunbonnet,  and 
her  trim  figure  was  clad  in  the  simplest  of  dark  skirts  and 
white  shirt-waist.  She  was  urging  her  heavy  horse  with  words 


WHICH  DEALS  WITH  A  CHANCE  MEETING  171 

of  encouragement,  alternated  by  caressingly  emitted  chir- 
rups from  a  pair  of  as  pretty  lips  as  Monica  remembered 
ever  to  have  seen. 

"Good  morning,"  Monica  cried  cordially,  as  the  vehicle 
drew  near.  She  sat  smilingly  waiting  for  the  lifting  of  the 
sunbonnet,  that  she  might  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  face  she 
felt  sure  was  pretty  beneath  it. 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"My!"  she  cried.  Then  she  remembered.  "Good  morn- 
ing— mam !" 

The  final  suggestion  of  respect  came  as  the  speaker  real- 
ized the  perfect-fitting  riding  habit  Monica  was  wearing. 
Her  eyes  were  round  with  wonder,  but  there  was  no  shyness 
in  them.  Equally  there  was  no  rudeness.  Just  frank,  pleased 
astonishment. 

"I'm  afraid  I  startled  you,"  Monica  said  kindly,  as  the 
girl  drew  up  her  horse.  "You  were  so  very  busy  coaxing 
your  horse." 

The  stranger  smiled  in  response. 

"He  needs  coaxing,"  she  said.  "The  pore  feller's  pretty 
old,  and  we've  surely  come  some  way." 

"Not  this  morning,"  Monica  protested,  studying  the  girl's 
face  with  genuine  admiration. 

She  was  not  disappointed.  The  girl  was  a  striking-looking 
creature.  Her  dark  hair  and  brows  threw  up  into  strong 
relief  the  beautiful  eyes  which  looked  fearlessly  up  into  her 
face  as  she  made  her  reply. 

"Oh  yes,  mam,"  she  said  calmly.  "You  see,  we  started 
from  Toogoods'  at  four  o'clock.  I  want  to  be  home  by 
noon.  Guess  we'll  make  it  tho'.  Old  Pete  and  I  have  made 
some  long  journeys  together." 

"He  looks  a  good  horse,"  Monica  hazarded.  She  knew 
little  enough  of  horse  flesh,  but  she  liked  the  look  of  this 
girl  and  wanted  to  be  agreeable.  "How  far  have  you  to  go 
now?" 

"Guess  it's  most  twenty-two  or  thereabouts.  Mamma'll 
be  worried  some  if  I  don't  make  home  by  noon.  I  don't  like 
worrying  mamma,  she's  so  good,  and — and  she's  dreadfully 
nervous." 

"An  invalid?"  suggested  Monica. 

"Oh,  no."    The  girl's  eyes  were  still  absorbed  in  the  de- 


17%  THE    WAY    OE    THE    STRONG 

tails  of  Monica's  dress.  She  had  never  seen  anything  quite 
like  it  before,  and  her  shrewd  mind  was  speculating  as  to 
this  stranger's  identity. 

"Say,  where  you  from?"  she  asked  suddenly,  in  a  quick, 
decided  manner.  "Guess  you  belong  to  Deep  Willows.  May- 
be you're  Mrs.  Hendrie?" 

"Quite  right — how  did  you  know?" 

The  girl  reddened  slightly  as  she  smiled. 

"Why — your  clothes.  You  see,  we've  all  heard  you're  at 
Deep  Willows." 

Monica,  laughed,  and  the  girl  joined  in. 

"My  clothes — folks  don't  wear  riding  habits  much  about 
here,  I  s'pose?" 

"No,  mam." 

Monica  nodded. 

"Now,  I  may  ask  who  you  are.  I  didn't  like  to  before, 
but— 

The  girl  smiled  frankly. 

"You  guessed  it  would  be  rude,"  she  said  quickly,  "so 
you  let  me  be  rude — instead." 

Monica  laughed  a  denial. 

"Oh  no,"  she  said.     "I  just  didn't  think  about  it." 

"But  it  doesn't  matter,  mam,"  the  girl  went  on.  "Nothing's 
rude  that  isn't  meant  rude.  I  never  mean  to  be  rude.  I 
don't  like  rudeness.  I'm  Phyllis  Raysun,  mam.  We're 
farmers — mamma  an'  me.  Just  a  bit  of  a  farm,  if  you  can 
call  it  'farm' — not  like  Deep  Willows." 

The  girl's  unmistakable  awe  when  she  spoke  of  Deep  Wil- 
lows amused  Monica. 

But  now  she  scrutinized  her  with  an  added  and  more 
serious  interest.  So  this  was  the  Phyllis  who  had  caught 
her  boy's  fancy.  This  was  the  girl  he  described  as  "bully" 
— and  she  was  frankly  in  agreement  with  him.  She  longed 
there  and  then  to  speak  of  Frank  and  learn  something  of 
Phyllis'  feelings  toward  him,  but  she  knew  she  must  deny 
herself. 

"I  dare  say  it's  a  very  happy  little  place  for  all  that, 
Phyllis,"  she  said,  deliberately  using  the  girl's  first  name. 
She  meant  to  begin  the  intimacy  she  had  suddenly  deter- 
mined to  establish  at  once.  "Who  works  it  for  you?  Your 
father— brother?" 


WHICH  DEALS  WITH  A  CHANCE  MEETING  173 

As  she  watched  the  changing  expression  of  the  girl's  face 
Monica  thought  her  the  prettiest  creature  she  had  seen  for 
years. 

"Neither,  mam."  There  was  a  slight  hesitation  over  the 
use  of  the  respectful  "mam."  Monica's  use  of  her  own 
name  had  slightly  embarrassed  her.  "There's  just  mamma 
and  me,  and  we  work  it  together.  We've  got  a  choreman, 
but  that's  all.  It's — it's  only  a  quarter  section." 

"You  two  never  do  all  the  work  yourselves — plowing?" 
Monica  cried  incredulously. 

The  girl  nodded.  She  liked  this  stranger.  She  was  so 
handsome,  so  good. 

"Mamma  an'  me — mam." 

Monica's  eyes  grew  very  soft.  It  seemed  wonderful  to 
her  this  courage  in  two  lonely  women. 

Suddenly  she  leaned  forward  in  her  saddle,  and  spoke  very 
gently. 

"Would  you  like  to  oblige  me — very  much?"  She  smiled 
into  the  girl's  earnest  face. 

Phyllis  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"Why,  surely — mam." 

"Then  don't  call  me  'mam,'  "  Monica  said,  in  a  tone  cal- 
culated to  leave  the  girl  with  no  feeling  of  shame  at  her  re- 
spectful attitude.  Then  she  laughed  in  the  way  Phyllis 
liked  to  hear.  "You  see,  I  am  just  the  same  as  you,  Phyllis 
—if  I  do  wear  a  tailored  riding  habit.  We're  both  farmers 
— in  our  way." 

Phyllis  blushed,  but  shook  her  head  with  a  simple  yet 
definite  decision. 

"I  won't  call  you  'mam5  if  you  don't  like  it,"  she  said 
readily.  "But  I  can't  help  thinking  there's  a  big — big  dif- 
ference, if  you  don't  mind  me  speaking  so  plainly." 

Monica's  interest  was  sincere. 

"Go  on,  child,"  she  said.  "I  like  to  hear  you  talk.  It- 
it  reminds  me  of  some  one  I'm — interested  in." 

The  girl's  luminous  eyes  brightened. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  say  much — only '  she  hesitated 

doubtfully,  "only  I  hear  so  many  folk  say  there's  no  differ- 
ence. Most  of  them  say  it  sort  of  spitefully,  and  you  can 
see  they  don't  say  it  because — because  they  really  believe 
it.  They  sort  of  want  to  make  out  they're  as  good  as  any- 


174  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

body  else,  and  all  the  time  most  of  'em  can't  even  think 
right.  It's  just  conceit,  and  spite,  and  envy.  And,  oh, 
there's  such  a  big  difference  all  the  time.  Take  two  men. 
Take  our  choreman,  and  your — your  husband.  Our  man 
can  plow  a  furrow — but  not  so  straight  and  true  as  I 
can.  I'd  say  he  can  clean  a  barn  out  right.  Maybe  he  could 
drive  a  team  down  a  straight  trail  without  hurting  anything. 
But  that's  all  he  can  do.  Say,  he  hasn't  got  brains  enough 
to  wash  himself  wholesome  and  clean.  Then  look  at  Mr. 
Hendrie.  Was  there  ever  such  a  great  man?  He  doesn't 
sit  down  and  shout  he's  better  than  other  folk.  Maybe 
he  don't  think  he  is.  But  he  gets  right  up  and  does  things 
that  come  near  making  the  world  stare.  And  it's  done  out 
of  his  own  head.  He  thinks,  and — and  does.  And  if  other 
folks  were  as  good  as  him  they'd  be  doing  just  the  same, 
and  there'd  be  nothing  to  wonder  at  in — in  anybody.  I 
wouldn't  be  rude  to  you — indeed  I  wouldn't,  but — but  there's 
a  heap  of  difference  between  folk,  it  shows  in  the  result  of 
their  lives." 

Monica  was  startled.  She  was  filled  with  an  intense  won- 
der at  this  youthful,  humble  prairie  flower.  Where  did  she 
get  such  thoughts,  such  ideas  from  at  her  age? 

She  answered  her  very  carefully.  She  felt  that  it  was 
necessary — it  was  imperative.  Somehow  she  felt  that  this 
child's  brain,  albeit  immature,  was  perhaps  superior  to  her 
own. 

"Well,  Phyllis,"  she  said,  "there's  a  great  deal  in  what 
you  say,  but  perhaps  we  are  looking  at  things  from  different 
points  of  view.  I  was  thinking  of  the  moral  aspect.  I 
maintain  a  good  woman's  a  good  woman,  whatever  her  sta- 
tion. No  clothes,  no  education  can  alter  that.  Every  good 
man  or  good  woman  is  entitled  to  the  same  consideration, 
whatever  the  condition  of — of  their  lives." 

Phyllis  watched  her  new  friend  eagerly  while  she  spoke. 
She  drank  in  her  words,  and  sorted  them  out  in  her  own 
quaint  fashion.  The  moment  she  ceased  speaking  she  was 
ready  with  her  answer. 

"Sometimes  I  think  I'd  like  to  see  it  that  way,"  she  said, 
with  simple  candor.  "Then  sometimes,  most  generally,  I 
think  I  wouldn't.  To  me  that  sort  of  makes  the  good  God 
kind  of  helpless.  And  He  isn't.  Not  really.  You've  just 


WHICH  DEALS  WITH  A  CHANCE  MEETING  175 

got  to  look  around  and  see  what  He's  done  to  understand 
that.  Look  at  the  trees,  the  prairie,  the  hills,  the  water. 
See  how  He's  provided  everything  for  us  all.  Well,  the  way 
you  think  makes  out  that  He's  just  created  us  and  all  this. 
He's  made  us  all  in  the  same  pattern,  and  dumped  us  right 
down  here  just  for  amusement,  and  sort  of  said:  'There 
you  are;  I've  done  my  best ;  just  get  right  to  it  and  see  how 
you  can  make  out.'  Well,  when  I  look  around  and  see  all 
He's  done  I  kind  o'  feel  we're  all  working  out  just  as  He 
wants  us  to.  We're  not  so  much  His  children  as  we're  His 
servants,  and  like  all  servants  we've  got  our  places,  some 
high,  some  low.  And  according  to  our  places  we  ought  to 
say  'sir'  and  'mam'  to  those  above  us,  just  as  we  feel  all  of 
us  ought  to  say  it  to  Him.  Guess  maybe  I  can't  make  it 
all  clear — maybe  you'll  think  me  a  sort  of  fool  child,  but  if 
I  live  to  be  a  hundred  I'll  feel  I  want  to  say  'mam'  to  you, 
and  'sir'  to  Mr.  Hendrie.  And  that's  because  any  one  must 
see  I'm  not  your  equal,  and  never  will  be." 

Monica  was  left  with  no  answer.  She  might  have  answered, 
but  she  was  afraid  to.  She  was  afraid  that  any  further 
contradiction  of  such  obviously  wholesome  ideas  might  affect 
this  simple  nature  adversely.  Therefore  she  permitted  her- 
self only  to  marvel. 

"Who  do  you  talk  to  about — these  things,"  she  asked 
after  a  brief  pause. 

Phyllis  flushed.  She  was  afraid  she  had  offended  where 
she  had  meant  no  offense.  Monica's  tone  had  been  almost 
cold. 

"I  don't  generally  talk  so  much,"  she  said  hastily.  "I 
like  to  think  most — when  I'm  plowing,  or  working  on  the 
farm.  I  talk  to  my  beau  sometimes,"  she  added,  with  a 
blush. 

"You  have  a  beau,"  said  Monica,  with  a  ready  smile. 
"But  of  course  you  must  have — with  your  pretty  face." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  we're  going  to  get  married  soon,"  Phyllis 
hurried  on,  basking  once  more  in  the  other's  smile.  "His 
mamma's  going  to  buy  him  a  swell  farm  and  start  him  right, 
and  we're  going  to  get  married.  Frank's  awfully  kind.  He's 
—he's " 

"Frank?  Frank — who?"  Monica  had  no  need  of  the 
information,  but  she  was  anxious  to  encourage  the  girl. 


176  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Frank  Burton.  He's  much  bigger  than  me,  and  he 
thinks  a  heap.  I  just  love  him.  I  just  love  him  so  I  don't 
know  what  I'd  do  if  I  hadn't  got  him.  He's  only  a  boy. 
We're  the  same  age,  and  he's  got  the  loveliest  face." 

"And  when  is  he  going  to  get  this  farm?" 

"Soon.  Quite  soon.  Then  we'll  be  married.  It's — it's 
good  to  love  some  one  and  feel  they  love  you,"  Phyllis  went 
on,  almost  abstractedly.  It  makes  you  feel  that  you  can 
work  ever  so.  The  days  get  short,  and  the  nights  shorter 
still.  It  makes  the  air  all  full  of  things  that  make  you 
want  to  laugh,  and  sing,  and  be  good  to  everything — even 
to  spiders  and — and  bugs  and  things.  Yes,  it  sets  every- 
thing moving  quick  about  you,  and  all  the  time  it's  just 
you,  because  you're  full  of  happiness  and  looking  forward. 
The  only  thing  that's  slow  is  the  time  between  seeing  him." 

Monica  smiled,  and  Phyllis  laughed  happily. 

The  mistress  of  Deep  Willows  could  have  sat  on  indefinitely 
talking  and  laughing  with  this  frank,  ingenious  child,  but 
she  knew  that,  however  reluctantly,  she  must  tear  herself 
away.  Already  the  sun  was  high  in  the  sky,  and  Phyllis 
had  to  reach  home  by  noon,  while  she  had  her  round  to  com- 
plete. So  she  lifted  her  reins,  and  her  dozing  broncho  threw 
up  its  head  alertly. 

"I  think  you'll  be  very  happy  with  your  beau,  Phyllis," 
she  said,  gently.  "You  would  make  any  man  happy.  If 
this  Frank  Burton  is  all  you  say  he  is,  and  I'm  sure  he  is, 
I  fancy  you'll  live  to  see  the  day  when  you  have  quite  lost 
your  desire  to  say  4nmm' — when  you  speak  to  me. 

The  girl  shook  her  head  seriously. 

"I  hope  not." 

Monica's  smile  was  at  thoughts  which  were  quite  impossible 
for  the  other  to  read. 

"I  hope  that  day  will  come,"  she  said.  "So  there  we  must 
agree  to  think  differently.  Meanwhile,  may  I  come  and  see 
you,  and  will  you  come  and  see  me?"  Her  eyes  grew  almost 
pathetically  appealing.  "Will  you?"  she  urged. 

A  flush  of  embarrassment  swept  over  the  girl's  happy 
face.  In  a  moment  she  was  struggling  to  express  her  grati- 
tude. 

"Oh,  ma — Mrs.  Hendrie,"  she  cried.  "Me  come  to  Deep 
Willows  ?  I — I — oh,  it  would  be  too  much." 


THE    CLEAN    SLATE  177 

"Will  you?" 

Monica  had  set  her  heart  on  obtaining  this  girl's  promise. 

"Oh— yes— if— if " 

"There  must  be  no  'ifs,'  "  Monica  cried.  Then  she  urged 
her  horse  nearer  the  buckboard  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Phyllis,"  she  said,  lingering  over  the  girl's 
name  caressingly.  "I  shall  keep  you  to  your  word.  And 
I  shall  come  to  see  you.  Good-bye,  my  dear,"  she  cried 
again.  "A  pleasant  journey." 

The  girl  pressed  the  neatly  gloved  hand  her  new  friend 
held  out  to  her,  and  her  old  horse,  after  its  welcome  rest, 
started  off  with  added  briskness.  She  was  loath  enough  to 
go,  but  she  had  yet  many  miles  to  travel  before  noon.  She 
called  out  a  warm  good-bye,  and  waved  her  small  brown 
hand. 

"I  surely  will  come,"  she  cried,  "I'll  never — never  forget." 

Monica  watched  them  go  till  the  rattling  old  buckboard 
dropped  behind  one  of  the  rising  prairie  rollers.  Then,  with 
a  deep  sigh,  she  set  off  toward  her  home. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    CLEAN    SLATE 

MONICA'S  chance  meeting  with  Phyllis  Raysun  was  not 
without  its  effect  on  both  their  lives.  An  effect  both  marked 
and  immediate  in  each  case.  The  girl  drove  on  home  in  a 
state  of  considerable  elation,  and  told  her  story  of  the  "great 
lady"  to  her  sympathetic,  if  not  very  clever  mother,  Pleasant 
Raysun.  She  told  it  not  as  one  might  speak  of  a  passing 
incident  on  her  journey,  but  as  an  important  factor  in  her 
uneventful  life. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  the  story 
having  come  to  its  commonplace  ending,  "it  likely  don't 
sound  great  to  you;  maybe  you'll  forget  about  it,  or,  if 
you  don't,  you'll  say  I'm  just  a  sentimental  girl  whose  feel- 
ings get  clear  away  with  her.  And  maybe  I  am,  maybe 
you're  right;  but  I  don't  think  so.  She's  a  lovely,  lovely 
woman,  and  somehow  I  kind  of  feel  I'm  all  mixed  up  with 
her  already.  I  don't  think  folks  make  friends.  Friends  are 

just  friends.     They  are,  or  they  aren't*     Even  if  you  don't 
13 


178  THE    LWAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

know  them,  they  are  your  friends,  waiting  till  the  time 
comes  when  you  meet.  That's  how  I  feel  about  Mrs.  Hendrie. 
I — I'm  sure  we're  friends,  and  always  have  been." 

Pleasant  Raysun  was  a  plump  body,  whose  dark  eyes  and 
soft  mouth  were  strangely  opposed  in  their  efforts  to  display 
the  character  behind.  She  was  just  a  gentle,  soft  creature, 
quite  devoid  of  any  attainments  beyond  a  capacity  for 
physical  work,  and  an  adoring  affection  for  the  daughter  to 
whom  she  looked  for  guidance. 

"Maybe  you're  right,  my  dear,"  she  said  amiably,  "you 
generally  are.  How  you  know  things  beats  me  all  to  deatji. 
Whoever  would  'a'  guessed  Pop  Toogood  was  sick  all  this 
way  off  like  you  did?  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't.  An'  then  about 
buy  in'  a  new  plow  an'  binder  by  instalments.  Who'd  V 
thought  o'  that?  It  surely  must  be  instinc',  as  you  often 
say,  only  wher'  you  get  it  beats  me.  I  never  had  instinc'. 
Nor  did  your  pop.  Leastways  he  never  showed  it  me. 
Sometimes  I  sort  o'  know  when  the  coffee's  just  right — 
maybe  that's  instinc' — which  reminds  me  the  hash  must  be 
nigh  overbaked." 

She  rose  from  her  rocker  and  toddled  across  to  the  cook- 
stove,  leaving  her  daughter  to  her  reflections.  She  had  no 
power  of  entering  into  any  of  the  girl's  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. Her  love  for  her  offspring  extended  to  an  unreason- 
ing admiration  for  her  capacity  and  beauty,  the  only  prac- 
tical expression  of  which  was  a  simple,  loving  care  for  her 
creature  comforts. 

With  Monica  the  effect  of  that  meeting  on  the  trail  was 
marked  in  a  wholly  different  manner.  She  had  at  last  seen 
this  girl  whom  her  boy  had  told  her  of  in  such  glowing 
terms.  She  had  seen,  and  she  knew  that  she  approved  his 
choice.  As  she  listened  to  her  talk,  as  she  became  aware  of 
her  views  upon  matters  on  which  she  believed  so  few  girls  of 
her  age  ever  thought  seriously,  she  became  more  and  more 
convinced  that  her  boy  had  blindly  stumbled  upon  the  one 
girl  to  be  his  helpmeet  in  the  upward  career  they  had  marked 
out  for  him. 

Thus  she  spent  the  rest  of  her  day  with  an  added  light 
shining  in  upon  Frank's  future,  and  with  it  came  a  swift 
decision  to  act  promptly,  and  carry  out  her  carefully  con- 
sidered plans  without  any  further  delay.  She  felt  it  to  be 


THE    CLEAN    SLATE  179 

best  from  every  point  of  view.  It  would  be  best  for  Frank, 
since  it  would  leave  him  free  to  begin  his  real  business  of  life 
at  the  moment  he  selected;  it  would  be  best  for  her,  since 
she  would  then  be  free  to  enter  upon  her  control  of  the  farm 
with  a  slate  wiped  perfectly  clean  of  the  last  shadow  of  the 
past  which  marred  its  surface. 

So  she  sent  word  to  Angus  that  she  required  the  best 
team  of  drivers  and  a  buggy,  since  Hendrie's  automobile 
was  away,  to  take  her  in  to  Calford  the  next  day. 

Her  order  was  received  without  enthusiasm,  but  with  con- 
siderable suspicion  by  her  husband's  manager.  So  much 
so  that  the  company  at  the  Russell  Hotel  that  night  were 
treated  to  a  more  than  usual  morose  severity  on  the  part 
of  this  local  magnate.  He  wrapped  himself  in  an  impene- 
trable and  sour  silence,  out  of  which  the  most  ardent  devo- 
tion to  his  favorite  spirit  could  not  rouse  him. 

Monica  spent  her  last  hours  before  retiring  to  bed  in 
writing  a  long  letter  to  Frank.  She  chose  the  library,  or 
office,  as  her  husband  preferred  to  call  it,  for  her  corre- 
spondence. She  preferred  this  room  to  any  other  in  the 
house.  Perhaps  it  was  the  effect  of  her  long  years  spent  in 
a  business  career.  Perhaps  it  was  because  it  was  so  soon 
to  become  the  seat  of  her  administration.  Perhaps,  again, 
it  was  the  thoughts  of  the  man  who  had  designed  it  for 
his  own  accommodation  that  inspired  her  liking. 

It  was  a  luxurious  place,  and  the  great  desk  in  the  center 
of  it  was  always  a  subtle  invitation  to  her.  The  subdued 
light  focusing  down  upon  the  clean  white  blotting  pad,  with 
its  delicately  chased  silver  corners,  never  failed  to  please 
her  whenever  she  entered  the  room  at  night.  Just  now  she 
felt  more  satisfaction  than  ever  as  she  contemplated  ridding 
herself  of  this  last  shadow  which  marred  her  happy  outlook. 

Her  maid  had  insisted  on  changing  her  from  her  habit, 
which  Monica  warmly  regarded  as  her  business  dress,  to  a 
semi-evening  toilet  of  costly  simplicity.  This  was  a  feature 
of  her  new  life  which  Monica  found  it  difficult  to  appreciate. 
She  had  looked  after  herself  for  so  long  that  she  rather 
feared  the  serious  eyes  and  deliberate  devotion  to  the  con- 
ventions of  the  well-trained  Margaret.  There  was  one  service 
that  she  could  not  induce  herself  to  submit  to.  It  was  that 
of  being  prepared  for  her  nightly  repose.  On  this  point 


180  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  mistress  of  Deep  Willows  was  adamant,  and  Margaret 
was  unwillingly  forced  to  give  way. 

Now  she  took  her  seat  at  the  desk.  She  drew  a  sheet  of 
notepaper  from  the  stationery  cabinet,  and,  for  some  mo- 
ments, sat  gazing  at  it,  lost  in  pleasant  thoughts  of  the 
young  girl  she  had  met  that  morning. 

It  was  curious  what  a  sudden  and  powerful  hold  this 
child  of  eighteen  had  taken  upon  her  affections.  She  thought 
she  had  never  encountered  any  one  of  her  own  sex  who  so 
pleased  her,  and  she  sat  there  idly  dreaming  of  the  days  to 
come,  when  this  boy  and  girl  would  marry,  and  she  could 
subtly,  almost  unnoticed,  draw  them  into  her  life. 

Yes,  it  could  be  done;  it  could  be  done  through  Phyllis. 
Frank  was  far  too  loyal  ever,  by  word  or  deed,  to  jeopardize 
her  in  her  husband's  regard.  Everything  was  simplifying 
itself  remarkably.  Fortune  was  certainly  with  her.  She 
smiled  as  she  thought  how  they  would  come  to  her.  A  local 
farmer  and  his  wife,  in  whom  she  was  interested.  Her  hus- 
band would  be  rather  pleased.  He  would  undoubtedly  en- 
courage her  in  her  whim.  Then,  if  he  should  recognize  Frank 
as  the  original  of  the  photograph  he  had  once  torn  up,  that 
would  be  easily  explained  and  would  be  an  added  reason  for 
befriending  the  couple — seeing  that  Frank  would  then  be 
married.  Oh,  yes,  a  little  tact,  a  little  care,  and  she  would 
have  a  daughter  as  well  as  a  son. 

Then  she  would  eventually  get  Alexander  interested  in 
the  boy.  And  when  that  was  achieved  she  would  begin  to 
develop  her  plans.  Frank  might  be  taken  into  some  of  her 
husband's  schemes,  after  which  it  would  be  easy  stepping 
upwards  toward  that  fortune  she  had  designed  for  him. 

But  she  was  suddenly  awakened  to  her  waste  of  time,  and 
her  own  physical  tiredness,  by  the  chiming  of  the  little 
clock  in  front  of  her,  which  was  accusingly  pointing  the 
hour  of  ten.  It  reminded  her,  too,  of  the  early  morning 
start  she  must  make  in  the  morrow,  so  she  snatched  at  a  pen 
to  begin  her  letter. 

Habit  was  strong  with  Monica.  An  ivory  penholder  and 
gilt  nib  had 'no  charms  for  her,  so  the  humble  vulcanite  of 
the  stylograph  of  her  stenography  days  was  selected,  and 
she  prepared  to  write. 

But  for  once  her  humble  friend  refused  adequate  service. 


THE    CLEAN    SLATE  181 

It  labored  thickly  through  the  heading,  "My  dearest 
Frank,"  and,  in  attempting  to  punctuate,  a  sudden  flow  of 
ink  left  a  huge  blot  in  place  of  the  customary  comma. 
With  a  regretful  expostulation  Monica  turned  the  paper 
over  and  blotted  it  on  the  pad,  and,  after  readjusting  the 
pen,  went  on  with  her  writing,  detailing  her  instructions 
swiftly  but  clearly,  so  that  no  mistake  could  be  possible. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  the  letter  was  finished  and  ready 
for  dispatch.  So  she  hurried  away  to  bed,  deciding  to  mail 
it  in  Calford  when  she  arrived  there  next  day. 

That  night  Angus  returned  to  the  farm  about  half-past 
eleven  o'clock.  There  was  nobody  up  to  receive  him,  ex- 
cept the  man  to  take  his  horse.  Nor  was  his  mood  improved 
by  the  realization  that  since  Mrs.  Hendrie's  coming  he  had 
been  definitely  robbed  of  his  high  estate.  He  knew  he  was 
no  longer  the  master  of  Deep  Willows.  In  the  eyes  of  the 
staff  of  servants,  brought  from  the  East,  he  was  one  like 
themselves,  a  mere  employee.  The  thought  galled  him,  but 
he  was  not  the  man  to  publicly  display  his  chagrin. 

He  let  himself  into  his  quarters  which  were  situated  in 
an  extreme  wing  of  the  building,  lit  the  lamp  in  his  office, 
and  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  He  sat  there  staring  moodily 
before  him,  chewing  the  cud  of  grievance  which  was  mo- 
mentarily getting  a  stronger  and  stronger  hold  upon  him. 

He  was  not  the  man  to  submit  easily,  nor  was  he  likely 
to  display  any  recklessness  in  dealing  with  the  situation. 
His  nature  was  a  complex  affair,  which  combined  many  ad- 
mirable qualities  oddly  mixed  up  with  a  disposition  as  sour 
and  spleenful,  even  revengeful,  as  well  could  be.  His 
grievance  now  was  not  against  Hendrie ;  there  was  a  peculiar 
quality  of  loyalty  in  him  which  always  left  Hendrie  far 
above  any  blame  that  he  might  feel  toward  others.  It  was 
the  woman  he  was  thinking  of.  The  woman  who  had  usurped 
his  place ;  and  all  the  craft  of  his  shrewd  mind  was  directed 
toward  her  undoing. 

Just  now  he  was  speculating  as  to  her  reason  for  suddenly 
taking  the  long  journey  into  Calford.  He  was  considering 
that,  and,  in  conjunction  with  it,  he  was  thinking  of  a  tele- 
gram which  Maybee  had  handed  him.  It  was  addressed  to 
Monica,  and  the  postmaster  had  assured  him  it  was  from 


182  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Hendrie,  announcing  his  unexpected  ability  to  return  home 
to-morrow.  At  first  Angus  had  felt  spitefully  pleased  that 
Hendrie  would  meet  his  wife  on  the  trail,  but  this  hope  had 
been  dashed  by  Maybee's  subsequent  information  that  the 
telegram  had  been  dispatched  from  a  place  called  Gleber, 
which  he  knew  lay  thirty  odd  miles  to  the  northwest  of 
Everton,  and  in  an  almost  opposite  direction  to  Calford. 
Now  he  was  considering,  while  apparently  doing  his  best 
to  deliver  the  message,  how  best  he  could  arrange  that  Monica 
should  not  see  it  before  she  went  away. 

His  reason  was  not  quite  clear.  Only  he  felt,  in  the  light 
of  what  he  knew  of  Monica's  clandestine  meetings  with  Mr. 
Frank  Smith,  that  she  was  not  taking  this  journey  with 
her  husband's  knowledge.  More  than  that,  he  felt  that  she 
had  no  particular  desire  to  advertise  it,  and  that  when 
Hendrie  discovered  his  wife's  absence  explanations  would 
have  to  be  forthcoming. 

Angus  was  a  great  believer  in  his  own  instinct.  What 
he  believed  to  be  intuition  had  served  him  well  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  and  just  now  he  felt  that  his  peculiar  faculties 
in  this  direction  were  particularly  alert. 

After  some  minutes  of  deep  thought  he  rose  from  his  chair 
with  a  wry  smile  twisting  the  corners  of  his  hard  mouth.  A 
thought  had  come  to  him  which  might  serve. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  library  and  lit  the  lamp  over  the 
desk,  and  as  he  did  so  he  sniffed  vigorously  at  the  air.  He 
detected  perfume,  and  glanced  quickly  around  him.  Then 
his  eyes  fell  on  the  blotting-pad  where  he  was  about  to  place 
the  telegram. 

In  a  moment  he  saw  that  the  pad  had  been  recently  used, 
and  the  perfume  told  him  by  whom.  He  had  no  scruples 
whatever.  Monica  had  been  writing  letters,  and  he  wondered. 
He  picked  up  the  pad  and  carefully  removed  the  uppermost 
sheet  of  blotting  paper.  Reversing  it,  he  held  it  before  the 
light,  and  studied  it  carefully.  Then  he  replaced  it,  but,  in 
doing  so,  deliberately  left  the  reverse  side  uppermost. 

"Guess  you  ought  to  know  better,  my  lady,"  he  muttered, 
his  face  genuinely  smiling.  "Thick  pens  are  cursed  things 
for  telling  tales  on  a  blotting-sheet." 

He  carefully  placed  the  telegrapm  exactly  over  the  blotted 
words  "My  dearest  Frank,"  which  now  read  as  they  had 


HENDRIE'S    RETURN  183 

been  written  by  his  unsuspecting  victim.  Then  he  forth- 
with hurried  back  to  his  quarters,  feeling  in  a  better  frame 
of  mind  than  he  had  felt  all  day. 


CHAPTER  XHI 

HENDRIE'S  RETURN 

ANGUS  MORAINE'S  little  plan  worked  out  exactly  as  he 
had  anticipated.  Monica  did  not  visit  the  library  before  her 
somewhat  rushed  departure  the  following  morning.  Her 
preparations  had  been  completed  overnight,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  which  required  a  visit  to  the  room  where  the 
telegram  had  been  deposited. 

Her  departure  took  place  shortly  after  daylight,  at  which 
hour  even  the  chance  visit  of  a  servant  to  the  library  was 
not  likely  to  occur.  Thus  it  happened  that  the  envelope 
and  its  contents  remained  in  their  place  quite  unheeded, 
even  by  the  girl  whose  duty  it  was  to  dust  and  set  the  room 
in  order,  until  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  at  which  hour 
Alexander  Hendrie  returned. 

The  millionaire's  return  was  the  result  of  an  impulse, 
inspired  by  finding  himself  with  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  "loose  end."  His  business  of  the  great  trust  had  un- 
expectedly taken  him  to  meet  a  deputation  of  local  grain- 
growers  at  Gleber,  just  as  he  was  about  to  leave  Calford  for 
Winnipeg.  From  thence  a  flying  visit  to  Deep  Willows 
was  only  a  deviation  of  route  whereby  he  might  fill  in  spare 
hours  which,  otherwise,  he  would  have  had  to  spend  waiting 
for  the  east-bound  mail  in  Calford. 

The  idea  of  surprising  Monica  had  pleased  him.  He 
knew  the  delight  it  would  give  her,  and,  for  himself,  every 
moment  spent  away  from  her  was  more  than  begrudged. 
Absorbed  as  Hendrie  was  in  his  maelstrom  of  affairs,  it  was 
curious  how  the  human  side  of  the  man  had  developed  since 
his  first  meeting  with  Monica.  He  was  still  the  colossal 
money-making  machine,  but  it  was  no  longer  his  whole  being 
as  hitherto  it  had  been.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that 
Monica  was  now  foremost  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  loved  with 
all  the  strength  of  his  maturity  as  jealously  as  any  school- 
boy, 


184  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Consequently,  on  his  arrival  at  Deep  Willows,  his  dis- 
appointment was  of  the  keenest  when  he  learned  that 
Monica  had,  only  that  morning,  departed  'suddenly  far 
Calford.  However,  he  was  not  the  man  to  give  way  to  such 
feelings  for  long,  especially  with  means  of  alleviating  them 
to  his  hand.  His  decision  was  prompt.  There  was  only 
one  thing  to  do.  He  would  go  straight  on  and  join  her  in 
Calford,  just  as  soon  as  sufficient  petrol  could  be  put  on 
board  the  car.  With  this  resolve  most  of  his  disappointment 
evaporated,  and  he  passed  on  to  the  library,  while  a  man 
was  despatched  to  notify  Angus  of  his  return. 

Angus  was  on  hand.  He  had  arranged  that  this  should 
be  so.  He  had  no  intention  of  missing  his  cues  in  the  little 
drama  his  own  mischief  had  inspired.  He  meant  to  be  an 
actor  in  it,  though  possibly  only  taking  a  small  part.  For 
the  rest  he  would  stand  in  the  prompter's  corner,  and  watch 
the  progress  of  his  handiwork. 

He  responded  to  the  millionaire's  summons  without  any 
undue  display  of  alacrity.  He  left  him  ample  time  in  the 
library  before  presenting  himself.  His  purpose  was  obvious 
and  well  calculated.  When  he  finally  entered  the  room,  he 
came  almost  without  any  sound,  turning  the  handle  of  the 
door  with  what  seemed  unnecessary  caution. 

Again  was  his  object  plain.  His  first  sight  of  Alexander 
Hendrie  was  of  a  great  man  standing  before  a  window  ex- 
amining, with  painful  intensity,  a  large  sheet  of  white  blot- 
ting-paper. This  was  as  Angus  had  hoped,  but  there  was 
something  else  that  gave  him  even  keener  satisfaction. 

He  was  studying  the  man's  head,  with  its  wonderful  mane 
of  fair  hair.  His  face  was  turned  three-quarters  toward 
him,  so  that  the  light  of  the  window  shone  down  on  the 
white  surface  of  the  paper. 

He  had  seen  Hendrie  in  most  of  his  moods,  he  had  studied 
him  a  hundred  times,  but  never,  in  all  his  long  years  of 
association  with  him,  had  he  witnessed  such  an  expression 
as  he  now  beheld. 

The  fair,  rather  sunburned  complexion  was  deadly  pale, 
the  bushy  brows  were  drawn  harshly  together,  the  lips,  con- 
trary to  their  usual  custom  in  repose,  were  slightly  parted. 
But  it  was  the  steel-gray  eyes  of  the  man  that  most  held 
and,  perhaps,  pleased  Angus.  There  was  no  light  in  them 


HENDRIE'S    RETURN  185 

that  suggested  violent  fury.  They  were  cold,  dreadfully 
cold  and  cruel,  like  the  steely  gray  of  a  puma's.  There  was 
pain  in  them,  too.  But  it  was  a  pain  that  did  not  suggest 
helpless  yielding.  On  the  contrary  Angus  recognized  the 
look  he  had  once  or  twice  seen  before,  when  Hendrie  had  con- 
templated crushing  some  opponent  to  his  schemes.  There 
was  an  atmosphere  about  his  whole  expression  that  was 
utterly  merciless. 

Angus  moved  across  the  soft  carpet  without  any  sound. 
He  halted  in  full  view  of  the  sheet  of  paper,  bearing  its  im- 
press of  those  three  tell-tale  words  with  the  culminating 
blot.  So  engrossed  was  Hendrie  that  he  did  not  appear  to 
observe  his  manager's  approach,  yet  he  gave  no  start,  or 
sign,  when  the  latter's  harsh  voice  broke  the  silence — 

"You  sent  for  me?     I'd  heard  you'd  got  back." 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  Hendrie  laughed  with- 
out looking  up. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  sent  for  you.  You  can  tell  the 
man  I  shan't  need  the  automobile." 

Angus  waited,  studying  the  profile  of  the  man  beside  him. 
He  felt  that  something  was  coming.  The  stillness,  the  un- 
natural calm  of  the  other  was  too  pronounced. 

Presently  Hendrie  looked  up,  and  Angus  mentally  rubbed 
his  eyes.  The  man  was  smiling — smiling  pleasantly.  But 
he  did  not  put  the  paper  aside. 

"Sort  of  curious,"  he  said,  with  a  half  humorous  dryness. 
"You  never  think  of  the  blotting-pad  you're  writing  on. 
It's  just  there,  and  when  you've  written  you  just  turn  your 
paper  over  and  blot  it.  You  do  it  a  hundred  times,  and  it 
never  seems  to  occur  to  you  that  you're  doing — something 
foolish.  Guess  the  folks  who  used  to  use  sand  had  more 
sense." 

Angus  nodded.  Something  told  him  that  his  eyes  were 
clear  enough  now.  He  gazed  meaningly  at  the  paper. 

"Guess  Mrs.  Hendrie  being  away,  the  maids  just  fancy 
they  can  do  as  they  please." 

In  a  moment  the  change  Angus  had  been  awaiting  came. 
In  a  flash  hell  seemed  to  be  looking  out  of  the  millionaire's 
eyes. 

"That's  my  wife's  writing!"  he  cried,  while  one  great 
hand  gripped  the  manager's  shoulder  with  crushing  force. 


186  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Angus  stared  into  the  man's  livid  face,  and,  as  eye  sought 
eye,  he  knew  that  at  last  he  was  gazing  into  the  torn  soul 
of  his  employer. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


DESPERATE,  silent  moments  passed  while  the  terrible  eyes 
of  the  millionaire  looked  into,  through,  beyond,  the  almost 
expressionless  face  of  his  manager.  Then,  at  last,  all  at 
once,  his  hand  relaxed  its  painful  grip  upon  the  man's  mus- 
cular shoulder,  and — he  laughed. 

His  laugh  was  unaccompanied  by  any  words  that  justified 
the  abrupt  change.  To  Angus  it  brought  a  feeling  of  relief. 
His  imagination  was  not  acute.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  realized 
the  lack  of  mirth,  the  hollow,  false  ring  of  that  laugh.  All 
he  knew  was  that  he  felt  as  though  some  living  volcano 
under  him  had  suddenly  ceased  to  threaten,  and  he  was  given 
a  respite.  Alexander  Hendrie  walked  across  to  the  desk, 
and  flung  his  bulk  into  the  sumptuously  upholstered  chair 
that  stood  before  it.  He  swung  it  round,  and  pointed  at 
a  chair  near  by,  and  facing  him,  so  placed  that  the  light  fell 
full  upon  the  face  of  its  occupant. 

"Sit  down,"  he  commanded,  with  cold  authority. 

Angus  obeyed,  waiting  and  wondering.  Hendrie' s  present 
mood  was  entirely  new  to  him.  He  had  stirred  the  fires  in 
this  man,  and  must  now  watch,  and  wait,  to  see  how  they 
burned. 

But  the  result  was  elusive.  Hendrie  reached  out  and  drew 
the  cigar  cabinet  toward  him.  With  deliberate  care  he 
selected  a  cigar,  and  pushed  the  cabinet  within  the  other's 
reach. 

"Smoke,"  he  said  laconically;  and  Angus  fingered  one  of 
the  priceless  cigars  tenderly. 

Hendrie  pierced  the  end  of  his  cigar  with  elaborate  care. 
He  lit  it.  Then  he  leaned  back  in  the  chair,  and,  locking  his 
fingers,  rested  his  elbows  upon  the  arms  of  it,  while  his  eyes 
remained  upon  the  blotting-sheet  in  front  of  him. 

Presently  he  looked  round,  and  a  swift,  cold  glance  shot 
into  Angus  Moraine's  face. 


A   MAN'S    HELL  187 

"When  I  came  in  here  I'd  sent  for  you,"  he  said.  "You 
were  in  your  quarters — which  was  not  usual  at  this  time." 
He  paused.  Then  he  went  on.  "Being  in  your  quarters  you 
could  have  joined  me  in  thirty  seconds.  You  came  after  ten 
minutes  or  so.  When  you  came,  you  came  quietly.  Guess 
you  stole  into  the  room — to  see  what  I  was  doing.  Why? 
Because  you  had  discovered  this  blotting-sheet — with  its 
writing.  You'd  found  it,  examined  it,  and  placed  it  back  in 
the  pad  reversed;  and — you  knew  it  was  my  wife's  writing. 
Guess  you've  something  to  tell  me — go  ahead." 

The  directness  of  the  challenge  was  so  characteristic  of 
Hendrie  that  Angus  was  not  wholly  unprepared  for  it.  The 
keen  analysis  of  his  personal  attitude  disconcerted  him, 
perhaps,  but,  after  a  moment's  thought,  it  left  him  com- 
paratively untroubled.  It  was  only  another  exhibition  of 
Hendrie's  wonderful  mentality — that  mentality  which  had 
carried  him  soaring  above  the  heads  of  all  his  rivals. 

"How  much  d'you  want  to  know?" 

For  a  second  Hendrie's  cold,  gray  eyes  lit,  then  his  swift 
command  came  with  tremendous  yet  restrained  heat. 

"All,  damn  you,  all!" 

Angus  flushed.  There  was  no  resentment  in  him  at  the 
other's  tone.  His  flush  was  inspired  by  some  feeling  of 
satisfaction. 

He  pointed  at  the  blotting-sheet. 

"Guess  that  Frank  has  another  name.  Leastways  I 
should  say  it  is  'Frank  Smith,'  who  registers  in  that  name 
at  the  Russell  Hotel  in  Everton — mostly  when  you're  away." 

The  millionaire's  eyes  were  intent  upon  the  blotting-sheet. 
He  offered  no  comment. 

"The  townsfolk  have  seen  him  riding  with  Mrs.  Hendrie 
— quite  a  lot — when  you're  away.  He's  a  big  feller.  Bigger 
than  you.  He's  got  thick  fair  hair,  and  is  a  good-looker." 

For  a  second,  Hendrie's  eyes  lifted. 

"Young?" 

"Anything  up  to  twenty-five." 

Hendrie  was  no  longer  contemplating  the  incriminating 
paper.  He  was  gazing  at  it,  and  beyond  it,  searching  the 
cells  of  memory. 

"Go  on,"  he  said.     His  cigar  had  gone  out. 

Angus  eyed  his  employer  squarely.     Strangely  enough  a 


188  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

a  twinge  of  compunction  was  making  itself  felt.  He  drew  a 
deep  breath.  Somehow  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  had 
suddenly  become  oppressive.  His  cigar  had  gone  out,  too. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  saw  that  writing.  I  read  it.  I  left 
it  so  that  when  you  came  in  you  couldn't  miss  it.  I  did  these 
tilings  because — of  what  I've  seen." 

"Seen?"  Again  the  millionaire's  eyes  lifted  in  the  other's 
direction.  It  was  only  for  a  second.  They  were  back  again 
in  an  instant,  staring  beyond  the  blotting-sheet. 

"Yes.  It  was  soon  after  Mrs.  Hendrie  came  here.  You 
had  gone  away  with  the  automobile.  She  wanted  a  buggy 
and  team.  She  wanted  to  study  the  country  and  people 
she  was  living  among.  She  was  away  all  day.  That  night 
I  went  into  Everton.  I  came  to  the  ford.  Guess  I  heard 
voices  beyond  the  bluff  that  separated  me  from  it.  One  was 
Mrs.  Hendrie's." 

"The  other?" 

"A  man's." 

Angus  paused.  The  oppressiveness  of  the  room  almost 
stifled  him. 

"They  had  spent  the  day  together.  The  woman  was  say- 
ing what  a  great  time  they'd  had  together.  She  was  arrang- 
ing when  she  would  see  him  again.  They  parted.  I  heard 
them  kiss  each  other." 

Hendrie  swung  his  chair  slowly  round.  He  was  smiling. 
Angus  was  alarmed.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  experi- 
enced a  sensation  of  fear  of  another  man. 

"They— kissed?" 

There  was  no  emotion  in  the  millionaire's  voice.  He  might 
have  been  asking  a  question  of  merely  ordinary  interest. 

Angus  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  heard  them.  I  wasn't  mistaken,  I'm 
dead  sure.  Then  they  parted.  Mrs.  Hendrie  got  back 
across  the  ford,  on  to  the  lower  trail  with  the  buggy.  The 
man  traipsed  on  to  the  hotel.  1  saw  him.  It  was  the  man 
who  registers  there  as  'Frank  Smith.' ' 

"A  big  man,  with  thick,  fair  hair,  and — a  good-looker?" 

Hendrie  detailed  the  description  as  though  registering 
it  in  his  memory,  and  comparing  it  with  a  picture  already 
there. 

"Yes." 


A   MAN'S    HELL  189 

"Anything  else?" 

The  millionaire  reached  for  a  match  and  relit  his  cigar. 

"Only  this  business  of  going  to  Calford — with  you  away. 
That  on  top  of  the  writing.  That  writing  was  done  last 
night,  I  guess,  and  Mrs.  Hendrie  has  mailed  no  letter  since. 
Maybe  she's  taken  it  with  her.  Maybe  she's  going  to  meet 
him  there.  Maybe  I'm  only  guessing,  but  I  thought  it  time 
you — knew  'bout  things." 

Angus  breathed  a  sigh.  He  had  done  all  he  intended  to 
do,  and  now  he — wondered. 

The  millionaire  was  searching  his  face  with  his  cold, 
keen  eyes,  but  he  was  still  smiling.  It  was  that  smile 
which  Angus  feared.  However,  he  faced  the  scrutiny, 
watching  the  upward  curling  of  the  smoke  from  the 
other's  cigar,  while  he  relit  and  puffed  a  little  unsteadily  at 
his  own. 

"Well?"  he  said,  after  a  long  silence. 

Hendrie  withdrew  his  gaze  and  turned  to  his  desk  again. 

"Better  not  cancel  the  car.    I'll  need  it  after  all." 

Angus  rose. 

"That  all?" 

Hendrie  reached  for  a  pen,  and  dipped  it  in  the  ink  as 
though  about  to  write.  He  replied  without  looking  up. 

"That's  all." 

Angus  moved  toward  the  door.  As  he  reached  it  the 
millionaire's  voice  stopped  him. 

"Angus !" 

The  manager  turned.  Across  the  room  he  beheld  a  pair 
of  glowing  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  He  saw  nothing  else.  They 
seemed  to  occupy  his  entire  focus,  devouring  him  with  their 
merciless  stare. 

"If  what  you've  told  me  is  not  true  I'll — kill  you." 

The  words  were  quietly  spoken.  They  were  spoken  too 
quietly.  They  came  coldly  to  the  departing  man,  and  like 
an  icy  blast  they  left  him  shivering.  He  knew  they  were 
meant,  not  as  a  mere  expression  of  anger,  but  literally.  He 
knew  that  this  man  would  have  no  scruples,  no  mercy.  No 
one  who  had  offended  need  expect  mercy  from  him — not 
even  the  wife  whom  he  knew  he  loved  above  all  things  in 
the  world. 

"They  are  true,"  he  returned. 


190  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  basilisk  eyes  passed  out  of  his  focus  as  Hendrie's 
head  bent  over  the  paper  before  him. 
"We  shall  see." 

As  the  door  softly  closed  behind  the  manager,  Hendrie 
flung  his  pen  down  upon  the  writing-pad.  He  sat  back  in 
his  chair,  and  his  eyes  stared  in  the  direction  of  the  closed 
door. 

He  sat  quite  still.  His  hard  face  had  lost  no  color,  there 
was  not  a  sign  of  emotion  in  it.  His  cold  eyes  gazed  on  a 
dead  level  at — nothing.  Never  was  there  an  exhibition  of 
more  perfect  outward  control  of  a  storming  brain  within. 
He  was  thinking,  thinking  with  the  lightning  rapidity  of  the 
perfect  machinery  of  a  powerful  brain.  He  was  thinking 
along  lines  all  wholly  unexplored  and  new  to  him,  and  such 
was  his  concentrative  power  that  no  feelings  were  permitted 
to  confuse  the  flow. 

His  whole  future  was  at  stake.  His  whole  life.  Every- 
thing— everything  that  mattered. 

The  time  passed  rapidly.  Still  that  silent  figure  sat  on. 
The  automobile  was  brought  round,  and  a  servant  announced 
it.  It  was  kept  waiting. 

What  agony  of  mind  and  heart  Alexander  Hendrie  went 
through  as  he  sat  there  in  his  splendid  library  none  would 
ever  know.  That  hell  had  opened  before  his  startled  eyes, 
that  the  wounded  heart  within  him  had  received  a  mortal 
blow,  there  could  be  no  possible  doubt.  But  his  sufferings 
were  his  own.  He  had  all  the  brute  nature  in  him  which 
sends  a  dying  animal  to  the  remotenesses  of  the  forest,  where 
no  eyes  can  witness  its  sufferings,  where  it  may  yield  up  its 
savage  spirit  beyond  the  reach  of  the  pity  and  sympathy  of 
its  fellow-creatures. 

CHAPTER  XV 

PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS 

ANGUS  MORAINE  had  done  his  work.  That  his  motive  in 
enlightening  his  employer  upon  those  matters  which  went  on 
in  his  absence  was  largely  spleenful,  even  revengeful,  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  But,  curiously  enough,  he  had  kept  to 
the  baldest  truth.  He  had  neither  exaggerated  nor  in- 


PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS  191 

vented.  Perhaps  he  had  felt  that  there  was  no  need  for 
either.  As  he  marshaled  his  facts  they  were  so  complete,  so 
entirely  damning,  that  it  is  doubtful  if  imagination  would 
have  served  his  purpose  better.  In  spite  of  Hendrie's  threat 
against  his  life  he  was  well  enough  satisfied  with  the  effect 
of  his  story  upon  his  employer. 

Later  on,  when  Hendrie  finally  departed,  he  was  still 
more  satisfied ;  for  it  was  then,  as  the  latter  paced  the  broad, 
flagged  terrace  fronting  the  entrance  to  the  house,  he  had 
walked  at  his  side  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  receiving  final 
instructions,  and  listening  to  some  necessary  details  of  fu- 
ture plans. 

Hendrie  was  going  away,  and  Angus  was  to  inform  his 
wife,  when  she  returned  from  Calford,  that  he  did  not  ex- 
pect to  return  for  at  least  two  weeks.  In  the  meantime  he 
gave  his  manager  a  telephone  number  in  Gleber !  This 
number  would  find  him  at  any  time,  after  his  wife's  return 
from  Calford.  Further,  he  told  him  that  the  only  message 
he  required  from  him  was  news  of  Mr.  Frank  Smith's  re- 
appearance in  Everton.  He  did  not  know,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  that  he  would  want  it  at  all,  but  it  must  be  sent.  Fur- 
thermore, on  Mr.  Frank  Smith's  reappearance  in  Everton, 
Angus  must  hold  himself  on  hand  at  the  Russell  Hotel. 

"See  here,"  Hendrie  concluded,  in  his  concise  fashion. 
"You'll  need  to  be  on  hand  at  any  moment  while  this  man's 
around.  And — you  must  know  his  movements  to  the  last 
detail.  Get  me?" 

Angus  understood.  Nor  had  he  forgotten  the  coldly  de- 
livered threat  in  the  library. 

"Well,"  the  other  went  on,  with  a  calmness  that  was  still 
the  marvel  of  the  Scot,  "guess  I'll  get  going.  I'm  going 
right  on  to  Calford  to  meet  Mrs.  Hendrie.  She'd  be  disap- 
pointed if  I  didn't  look  her  up,  having  missed  her  here.  So 

long." 

Hendrie  entered  the  waiting  car,  and  the  two  men  parted 
without  a  sign  of  that  which  lay  between  them.  Angus 
watched  the  machine  roll  away  down  the  winding  trail,  which 
followed  the  bend  of  the  picturesque  river  bank.  Then,  as 
it  disappeared  from  view,  he  turned  thoughtfully  away,  and 
moved  off  in  the  direction  of  his  quarters. 

His  years  of  association  with  the  millionaire  had  taught 


192  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

him  much  that  the  world  did  not  know  of  that  individual's 
character.  There  were  times,  even,  when  he  believed  he 
knew  all  there  was  to  know  of  it.  There  were  other  times 
when  he  was  not  so  sure ;  just  as  there  were  times  when  some 
trifling  detail  brought  out  a  trait  that  was  entirely  new  to 
him.  At  such  times  he  was  wont  to  admit  that  the  man  was 
unfathomable.  That  is  what  he  admitted  to  himself  now. 
What  did  he  contemplate?  What  subtle  scheme  was  in  the 
back  of  his  great  head?  There  was  some  definite  purpose, 
he  felt  sure ;  some  definite  and,  perhaps,  deadly  purpose. 
And  it  was  demanded  of  him  to  play  his  part  in  it,  not  with 
eyes  wide  open,  and  with  full  understanding.  But  blindly 
groping — in  the  dark. 

He  thought  for  long  as  he  sat  in  his  office.  He  considered 
every  detail  of  the  instructions  he  had  received.  But  the 
ultimate  object  of  them  eluded  him.  However,  his  mind 
was  made  up  from  the  outset.  Come  what  may,  his  life  was 
bound  up  with  the  life  of  this  man.  He  would  follow  him 
whithersoever  he  led,  and,  since  it  was  necessary — blindly. 

The  supper-room  in  the  Strathmore  Hotel  at  Calford  was 
a  blaze  of  light.  The  string  band,  screened  off  behind  a 
decorative  display  of  palms  and  ferns,  was  playing  the  latest 
and  most  popular  ragtime.  But  the  room,  with  its  hundred 
tables,  was  less  than  half  full,  in  spite  of  the  important  agri- 
cultural congress  that  was  being  held  in  this  capital  of  the 
wheat  lands. 

The  truth  was  that  the  late  meal  was  always  at  an 
awkward  hour  in  the  hotels  which  catered  for  a  wealthy 
transient  custom.  The  east  and  west-bound  mails  met  at 
Calford  at  eleven-thirty  at  night,  just  at  the  time  when  most 
of  the  hotel  guests  were  either  preparing  to  start,  or  trans- 
acting the  last  few  details  of  their  business  before  departing 
on  their  transcontinental  journeys. 

But  Monica  was  delighted  at  this  absence  of  a  crowd. 
For  her,  it  was  one  of  those  happy,  utterly  unanticipated 
moments  in  life  which  are  too  precious  to  miss.  Just  as  she 
had  retired  to  her  room  after  dinner,  a  chambermaid  had 
announced  the  arrival  of  her  husband. 

Her  journey  had  been  taken  quite  openly.  There  had 
been  no  secrecy  about  it.  She  was  here  purely  on  business, 


PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS  193 

the  nature  of  which  was  her  own.  Therefore  she  had  nothing 
to  fear,  and  was  frankly  overjoyed  at  this  unexpected  re- 
union. 

Alexander  Hendrie  was  in  his  best  spirits.  He  explained 
to  her  his  journey  to  Deep  Willows,  and  his  subsequent  dis- 
appointment at  not  finding  her  there.  Then,  hearing  that 
she  had  driven  over  to  Calford,  he  had  followed  her  at  once. 
The  journey,  he  explained,  suited  his  purpose  well,  for  he 
must  leave  by  the  night  mail  for  Winnipeg,  and  did  not 
anticipate  returning  home  for  ten  days,  or  even  two  weeks. 

So  Monica  spent  a  happy  evening  with  her  husband.  His 
manner  was  the  brightest  she  had  ever  known.  He  never 
questioned  her  presence  in  Calford,  but  took  it  for  granted 
she  was  "doing"  the  stores.  He  talked  to  her  of  his  work 
and  informed  her  of  the  progress  of  the  Trust.  His  hopes 
and  fears  he  talked  of  unreservedly,  and  Monica  felt  that 
never  was  a  woman  so  blessed  with  the  perfect  confidence  of 
such  a  husband. 

Thus  the  brief  evening  was  spent  until  the  final  meal  of 
the  day  came  round.  Monica  required  nothing  more  to  eat, 
and  suggested  that  her  husband's  meal  should  be  served  in 
her  sitting-room.  But  Hendrie  demurred,  and  it  was  finally 
arranged  that  the.y  should  adjourn  to  the  supper- room, 
where  Monica  could  partake  of  an  oyster  cocktail,  while  he 
fortified  himself  against  his  journey. 

As  the  meal  drew  to  a  close,  and  the  man  leisurely  sipped 
his  coffee,  he  expressed  his  cordial  regrets  at  his  prolonged 
absences  from  home. 

"It'll  soon  be  over,  Mon,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "I  can 
see  the  end  of  things  looming  already.  Such  separations  as 
ours  are  not  good,  are  they?  I  shall  be  glad  when — things 
are  settled." 

Monica  gazed  happily  into  his  steady  eyes. 

"I'm  simply  yearning  for  that  time  to  come,  Alec,"  she 
cried,  her  eyes  shining  across  the  table  into  his.  "But  these 
separations  will  soon  pass,"  she  went  on  hopefully,  "now 
that  I  am  going  to  be  so  busy.  Do  you  know,  I  don't  think 
Angus  thinks  I'm  capable  of  running  the  farm?  But  I'm 
just  going  to  show  him  that  I  am." 

Hendrie's  eyes  looked  a  swift  inquiry. 

"Has  he  said  so — to  you?"  he  asked. 
14 


194  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Monica  remembered  in  time.  She  had  no  desire  to  injure 
the  man. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  declared.  "Only — only — I  don't  think  he 
trusts  me.  I  don't  think  he  has  much  of  an  opinion  of 
women." 

At  that  moment  a  waiter  approached. 

"The  east-bound  mail  has  been  signaled,  Mr.  Hendrie. 
She's  due  in  twenty  minutes." 

"Thanks."     Hendrie  nodded  and  turned  to  Monica. 

"Angus  is  a  curious  fellow — but  he's  very  loyal  to  me. 
He  would  never  do  anything  he  considered  detrimental  to 
my  interests,  and  he'd  surely  see  that  no  one  else  did.  I 
don't  know  about  his  opinions  of  women,  but" — he  smiled— 
"I  think  he's  sore  at  leaving  the  farm." 

Monica  nodded  and  smiled. 

"I'm  sure  he  is,"  she  said,  as  they  rose  from  the  table. 

They  passed  out  into  the  vestibule  where  a  man  stood 
waiting  to  assist  the  millionaire  to  the  train. 

"However,  Mon,"  Hendrie  said,  smiling  inscrutably.  "I 
don't  think  you'll  find  any  lack  of  attention  or  considera- 
tion on  Moraine's  part  during  my  present  absence.  I've  left 
him  definite  instructions  to  help  you  in  your  study  of  the 
farm.  It's  my  wish  you  see  everything  carried  out  in  the 
work.  And  I've  told  him  so.  I  don't  guess  he'll  make  any 
mistake.  And  you,  Mon — I  want  you  to  learn  it  all.  Even 
if  things  sometimes  come  amiss,  or — or  at  awkward  times, 
and  inconvenience  you.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  all  this, 
too." 

Monica  smiled  joyously. 

"Promise?  Why,  of  course,  Alec,"  she  cried.  "Why,  if 
I  have  to  turn  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night  it  will  be  no 
great  hardship." 

"Splendid."  Hendrie  smiled,  but  his  eyes  avoided  the 
woman's.  "Well,  now — good-bye,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

For  a  moment  Monica  hesitated.  Then  she  remembered 
where  she  was,  and  they  shook  hands  like  two  friends. 

"Good-bye — dear,"  she  murmured. 

A  moment  later  the  waiter  was  enveloping  Hendrie  in  his 
light  traveling  coat. 

With  a  nod  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  he  hastily  followed 


PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS  195 

the  man,  and  made  his  way  through  the  revolving  door, 
which  was  the  hotel  entrance  to  the  railroad  depot. 

Monica  looked  after  him,  feeling  a  little  depressed.  It 
was  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  that  her  husband  had 
left  her  with  a  formal  parting.  She  knew  it  could  not  have 
been  otherwise  in  the  vestibule  of  a  busy  hotel.  It  would 
have  been  different  had  they  supped  in  private — ah,  well, 
soon  there  would  be  no  such  partings  as  these. 

In  contrast  to  the  brilliant  surroundings  of  the  Strath- 
more  Hotel  the  humble  homestead  over  which  Phyllis  Raysun 
reigned  was  a  crude,  even  squalid  affair.  Poverty  was 
stamped  all  over  it,  that  is,  if  lack  of  worldly  possessions  and 
general  dilapidation  must  be  taken  as  the  hallmark  of 
poverty. 

Phyllis  did  not  admit  such  to  be  the  case.  She  claimed 
a  wealth  which  she  would  not  have  exchanged  for  the  lot 
of  a  royal  princess.  She  was  a  healthy,  happy  girl,  loving 
and  beloved,  and  she  admitted  she  could  ask  no  more  of  the 
perfect  life  in  the  midst  of  which  she  found  herself. 

For  her  mother's  occasional  grumbles  she  would  adapt  her 
mental  attitude  to  a  different  focus.  That  weak  but  amiable 
creature  had  different  views.  She  had  lived  through  that 
life  Phyllis  was  only  just  beginning,  and  therefore  the  golden 
focus  of  youth  was  dimmed,  and  the  buoyant  hope  of  younger 
life  had  resolved  itself  into  a  yearning  for  all  those  bodily 
comforts  which  had  somehow  passed  her  by. 

At  such  times  when  her  mother's  bitterness  and  complaint 
found  expression,  Phyllis,  with  her  ready  understanding, 
sought  to  comfort  her,  to  encourage  her.  Some  such  desire 
stirred  her  on  a  morning  when  a  neighbor  brought  her  a 
letter  from  Frank.  It  was  a  letter  passed  on  from  hand  to 
hand,  across  country,  without  the  service  of  the  mail.  Frank 
would  be  over  at  the  midday  meal,  and  Mrs.  Raysun  was 
deploring  the  poverty  of  their  larder,  as  she  prepared  a  stew 
at  the  cook  stove  in  their  only  living-room. 

"It  makes  me  fair  ashamed,  Phyl,"  the  old  woman  cried 
in  distress,  as  she  cut  up  the  mixture  of  vegetables  for  the 
simmering  pot.  "It  surely  does.  To  think  of  your  beau 
comin'  over  to  a  meal  like  this.  And  him  a  college-bred  boy, 
with  elegant  manners,  and  with  a  ma  with  thousands  o* 


196  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

dollars.    I  kind  o'  feel  the  shame's  all  on  me — your  mother." 

Phyllis  laughed  in  her  buoyant  fashion. 

"Is  it,  momma?"  she  cried.  "Where?  How?  Oh,  you 
dear  old — old  goose.  If  I  was  a  princess  with  all  the  world 
mine,  and  I  gave  half  of  it  to  Frank,  I  shouldn't  be  giving 
him  any  more  than — that  stew.  The  best  we've  got  is 
Frank's,  and  we  sure  can't  do  more.  And,"  she  added  ten- 
derly, "I  guess  Frank  wouldn't  want  more."  Then  she 
smiled  slyly.  "Frank  would  rather  have  one  of  your  stews 
here  than  oysters  on  the  half  shell  in  any  other  house." 

"House?  House,  my  dear?  Call  this  hog  pen  a — house?" 
cried  Pleasant,  a  flush  of  shame  dyeing  her  plump  cheeks. 

"It's  a  palace — to  Frank  and  me — when  we're  eating 
your  stew  in  it.  Yes,  momma,  and  the  meal's  a  banquet. 
Oh,  don't  you  see,  dear?  We're  just  two  silly  folks  up  to 
our  eyes  in  love  with  each  other,  and — and  nothing  matters. 
Listen,  momma.  Frank's  getting  his  money  right  away. 
He's  located  his  farm,  and  he's  going  to  buy  it  in  a  week  or 
two.  We're  going  to  get  married,  and — and  we're  going  to 
move  to  the  new  farm  just  as  soon  as  we've  harvested  our 
crops  here — all  of  us.  You,  too.  It's  a  swell  house,  just 
what  you  like.  And  we're  going  to  have  'hands'  to  work 
for  us,  and  Frank's  fairy  godmother  looking  on  and  helping 
us  to  be  as  happy  as  happy.  Oh,  momma,  we  won't  grumble 
a  thing.  Just  let's  remember  that  we've  got  to  do  our  best 
in  whatever  lot  we  find  ourselves." 

Pleasant  Raysun  could  never  resist  her  daughter's  bright 
hope  for  long.  The  girl  never  failed  to  put  fresh  heart  into 
her.  Like  all  weak  natures,  she  needed  the  constant  support 
of  a  heart  stronger  than  her  own.  Phyllis  understood  this, 
and  the  support  was  never  begrudged,  never  withheld. 

Nor  was  the  girl's  declaration  lacking  in  confirmation 
when  Frank  appeared.  He  had  lost  the  last  vestige  of  any 
outward  signs  of  the  shame  he  believed  attached  to  him 
through  his  birth.  Here  again  it  was  Phyllis  who  had  dis- 
pelled the  ugly  clouds  which  had  threatened  to  envelop  and 
stifle  him. 

Now,  as  he  came,  he  sniffed  the  air  pervading  the  kitchen 
with  appreciation,  and  Phyllis  smiled  across  at  her  mother. 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  hungry  until  now,"  he  declared.  "It 
surely  was  a  bright  thought  of  mine  letting  you  two  know 


PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS  197 

ahead  I  was  coming,  Phyl.  I  bet  five  dollars  it's  a  jack- 
rabbit  stew.  Any  takers?" 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  his  happy,  open 
face,  all  smiles.  Then,  as  Phyllis  shook  her  head,  he  pre- 
tended disappointment. 

"No  luck,"  he  said,  with  an  absurd  air  of  dejection. 

The  girl  admonished  him  in  the  lightest  spirit  of  raillery. 

"You  don't  want  it  all — the  luck,  I  mean,  not  the  stew," 
she  said  severely.  "Anyway,  you're  not  getting  the  stew 
yet.  Momma's  particular  how  long  it  cooks." 

"Not  for  nigh  an  hour,"  smiled  Pleasant  from  the  stove. 

"Then  I'll  tighten  my  belt  like  a  starving  explorer,"  cried 
the  boy. 

The  old  woman  turned  about,  and  waved  a  tin  spoon  at 
them  both. 

"If  you're  that  hungry  you  can't  wait,  Frank  Burton,  I 
guess  Phyl'd  better  take  you  out  to  the  barn  an'  feed  you 
hay.  There's  more  than  bosses  and  cattle  eats  hay." 

Phyllis  laughed. 

"There  you  are,  Frank.  That's  deadly  insult.  What  you 
going  to  do  'bout  it?  Do  you  hear  what  momma's  calling 
you?" 

The  youth  fingered  one  ear  ruefully. 

"They  must  have  grown  some,"  he  said  doubtfally.  Then 
he  looked  up  with  a  laugh.  "Guess  maybe  she's  right, 
though.  Come  on,  Phyl,  sweet  hay's  not  half  bad  fodder  for 

a  hungry Say,  if  you  come  right  along,  I'll  tell  you  all 

about  the  farm  while  I  eat  it.  How's  that?" 

Phyllis  needed  no  second  bidding,  and,  together,  they 
passed  out  of  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  favorite  place  of  theirs  to  sit  outside  the  low 
doorway  of  the  sod-built  barn.  An  old  log  served  the  girl  as 
a  resting  place,  and  the  huge  youth  spread  himself  on  the 
ground  beside  her,  propping  his  elbow  on  the  same  log,  so 
that  his  tawny  head  was  nearly  on  a  level  with  her  rounded 
shoulder. 

"Phyl,"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  they  were  settled,  "mother's 
a — a  trump.  It's  all  fixed.  I've  given  old  Sam  Bernard 
notice  I'm  quitting.  The  old  boy's  hard  hit — in  a  way.  I 
believe  he  likes  me  some.  I  told  him  I'd  come  along  back  and 
help  him  harvest.  And  I'm  going  to  help  you  harvest,  too. 


198  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  that's  afterwards.  First  I'm  going  to  see  mother  and 
get  the  money,  then  I'm  going  to  buy  the  farm.  Then  I'm 
going  to  see  certain  things  put  in  readiness  for  fall  work. 
Then  I'm  coming  along  back  here,  and  we're  going  right  in 
to  Calford  to  buy  up  fixings  for  our  new  home.  Then,  after 
harvest,  we're — going  to  get  married.  How?" 

Phyllis  smiled  down  into  the  eager,  upturned  face,  with 
that  wise  motherly  little  smife  which  was  so  much  a  part  of 
her  attitude  toward  those  belonging  to  her,  those  she  loved. 

"How?  Why,  then  you're  going  to  come  right  down  to 
earth  and  say  it  all  over  again,"  she  said,  with  gentle  eager- 
ness. "Say  it  all  again,  Frank,  and  say  it  slowly.  I — I 
don't  want  to  miss  any  of  it.  It's  all — all  too  good  to  miss. 
Oh,  I'm  so  happy  I  want  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time. 
I — I  want  to  take  the  whole  world  in  my  arms  and  hug  it." 

"Won't  I  do?"  suggested  the  young  giant,  sitting  up 
promptly. 

The  girl  nodded  demurely. 

"Perhaps,  as — a  substitute." 

She  bent  over  him,  and  placing  her  arms  about  his  great 
neck  kissed  him  very  tenderly. 

She  sighed  as  she  released  him. 

"Now  let's  be  sensible,"  she  said  soberly.  "Now  tell  it 
me  all  again." 

She  was  promptly  obeyed.  But  again  Frank's  enthusiasm 
took  hold  of  him,  and  he  poured  out  in  a  rapid  flow  all  his 
hopes  of  their  future.  He  ran  over  in  brief  review  the  many 
trifling  schemes  he  had  already  worked  out  in  conjunction 
with  the  running  of  their  new  farm.  He  rattled  on  over  num- 
berless developments  he  proposed.  He  told  her  of  the  beau- 
tiful red  pine  frame  farm  buildings,  which  must  have  cost  as 
much  to  build  as  he  was  paying  for  the  whole  place.  He 
spoke  of  the  acres  of  splendid  timber  in  glowing  terms. 
Then  there  was  the  river  frontage,  and,  yes — actually — the 
outcrop  of  a  coal  seam  was  jutting  right  out  of  its  bank. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  girl's  delight  was  shining  in  her 
eyes. 

"And — and  when  am  I  going  to  see  it  all?"  she  asked,  as 
he  paused  for  breath. 

The  man's  fair  face  flushed  and  beamed. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "that's  what  I've  been  saving  up.    I  never 


PROGRESS    OF    AFFAIRS  199 

suggested  jour  seeing  it  before,  Phyl,  because — because 
"  his  eyes  became  thoughtful,  "well — I  didn't  just  want 
to  take  a  risk.  You  see,  I  was  'most  afraid  something  might 
happen  to  queer  things.  Guess  I  wouldn't  disappoint  you 
for  worlds.  I'd  a  notion  to  wait  till  there  was  no  chance  of 
anything  going  wrong  with  the  deal.  Say,  you're  going 
with  me  to  pay  the  money — you  and  your  mother.  Then 
we're  going  on  to  see  the  farm." 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She  was  gazing  out  at  the  barren 
sky-line,  all  her  happy  soul  shining  in  the  wonderful  light 
of  her  eyes.  Mutely  she  was  thanking  God  for  the  love  of 
this  man,  thanking  Him  for  the  wonderful  blessings  He  was 
pouring  upon  her.  Whatever  else  might  come  in  the  long 
years  of  life  before  her,  the  memory  of  this  moment  would 
live  with  her  to  her  dying  day.  She  was  very — very  happy. 

After  a  while  she  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and,  reaching  out, 
pointed  away  to  the  distant  lines  where  the  sharp  horizon  of 
the  prairie  cut  across  the  sky. 

"Look!"  she  cried,  in  a  thrilling  voice.  "Look,  Frank, 
over  there  in  the  East !  There's  not  a  cloud  anywhere.  It's 
bright,  bright.  The  sky's  just  blue  with  a  wonderful  color 
that  shines  down  upon  a  thankful  world,  watching  and  wait- 
ing for  the  harvest.  We're  waiting  for  the  harvest,  too. 
Perhaps  ours  isn't  just  the  same  harvest  other  folks  are 
waiting  for.  Maybe  ours  is  the  harvest  of  our  souls.  Let 
it  be  an  omen  to  us.  Just  as  it  is  the  omen  the  farmer  looks 
for.  It  kind  of  seems  to  me  all  blessings  come  from  yonder. 
Guess  that's  where  the  sun  rises,  bringing  with  it  the  hope 
of  the  world.  Hope  and  light.  Yes,  it  kind  of  seems  to  me 
everything  good  comes  out  of  the  East.  That's  how  the 
Bible  tells  us.  We  don't  look  west  till  afternoon,  the  after- 
noon of  life.  That's  because  it's  full  of — decay.  That's 
where  a  tired  sun  just  hangs  heavily  in  the  sky.  A  poor  old 
sun,  looking  kind  of  sad  and  weary.  It's  got  so  busy  making 
folks  happy  in  the  morning  that  its  plumb  beat,  and  can't 
help  itself  against  those  banks  of  black  cloud  all  fixed  up 
with  deep  angry  light,  trying  to  deceive  the  poor  old  thing, 
and  make  it  believe  they  aren't  just  going  to  swallow  it  right 
up,  and  stifle  it,  and  put  out  its  light.  No,  this  is  still  our 
morning,  so  we'll  look  out  east  for  all  the  good  things  to 
come.  It's  very,  very  bright." 


200  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Frank  mechanically  followed  the  direction  of  the  girl's 
happy  eyes.  But  his  own  feelings,  though  no  less  happy  and 
thankful,  had  no  such  means  of  expression. 

"Yes,"  he  said  lamely.     "It  is  bright,  isn't  it?" 

"Bright?"  The  shining  eyes  looked  down  into  his  hand- 
some face,  and  again  they  smiled  with  that  sweet,  motherly 
tenderness.  "Yes,  dear." 

Her  simple  agreement  set  the  other  racking  his  brains  to 
let  her  understand  that  he  appreciated  her  mood.  He 
flushed  as  he  reached  for  one  of  her  hands  and  squeezed  it. 

"That's  how  I  want  to  make  it  for  you — always,"  he  said, 
with  clumsy  sincerity.  "Just  sunshine.  We  mustn't  have 
clouds." 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"But  we  must,  dear,"  she  said  decidedly.  "Say,  Frank, 
just  think  what  life  would  be  without  them."  Her  manner 
had  once  more  drifted  into  that  curious  earnestness  that  sat 
so  oddly  upon  one  of  her  years  and  happy  temperament. 
"Think  of  it.  A  whole  long  life  spent  in  the  glaring  light  of 
a  summer's  day.  It  couldn't  be  done,  Frank.  It  sure 
couldn't.  That  way  there'd  be  no  sort  of  hope,  no  sort  of 
ambition,  and — and  our  hearts  would  be  all  wilted  up  with  a 
terrible  sickness.  No,  we  want  clouds,  too — in  their  season. 
Do  you  know,  Frank,  it's  just  in  the  dark,  dark  clouds  that 
hope  hides  itself.  No  clouds,  no  hope.  And  hope's  just  what 
we  live  on.  Happiness  helps  to  make  us  strong,  but  too  much 
happiness  would  be  the  worst  misery." 

The  youth  beside  her  sat  up. 

"Phyl,"  he  cried,  helpless,  "you  do  know  an  awful  lot. 
Say "  But  Phyllis  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  I'm  dreadfully  happy,"  she  cried.  Then  she  gazed 
seriously  into  his  eyes.  "Tell  me,  Frank,  doesn't  it  make 
you  think — notions  when  you're  dreadful  happy?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"I  just  feel— happy,"  he  said.    "That's  all." 

"It  does  me,"  Phyllis  cried  rapturously.  "And  it's  times 
like  this  that  I  just  want  to  know — know — know,  until  there's 
not  a  thing  left — to  know.  Do  you  know,  sometimes  I've 
a  sort  of  crazy  notion,  there's  some  one — big — trying  to* 
teach  me  lots  an  lots.  He  often  seems  to  be  around — 'spe- 
cially when  I'm  not  out  plowing.  I'm  mostly  happy  then, 


IN    THE    MOONLIGHT  201 

It's  somebody  very  big — and  wide — and  he's  always  whisper- 
ing to  me — just  as  if  he  was  in  the  air  of  these  plains " 

Frank  threw  out  one  great  hand  to  stay  her.  A  sudden 
inspiration  had  penetrated  his  simple  mind. 

"I  know,"  he  cried,  breaking  in  quickly.  "That's  not — 
somebody.  That's  you.  That's  you,  Phyl."  He  drew  him- 
self up  on  to  his  knees  in  the  excitement  of  his  discovery. 
•'That's  your  soul  talking  to  you,  Phyl.  It's  feeling  so  good 
it  must  tell  you  'bout  things.  I  know.  I've  had  it.  And  you 
sort  of  listen  and  listen,  and  you — you  just  know  what  it 
says  is — is  right.  And  you  don't  need  any  one  to  tell  you  it 
isn't,  because — because  you  know  it  is ' 

"Ho !  you  two  folks,  the  stew's  through !" 

Frank  swung  round  at  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Raysun's  voice 
calling,  and  he  flushed  self-consciously  as  he  realized  the 
ridiculousness  of  his  attitude.  Phyl  sprang  from  her  seat 
and,  catching  hold  of  his  great  hand,  helped  him  to  his  feet. 

"Come  along,  dear,"  she  cried,  smiling  merrily.  "Momma's 
stews  are  too  good  to  keep  waiting,  even  if  our  souls  want 
to  tell  us  a  whole  heap  that  is  good  for  us  to  know." 

Then,  as  they  walked  side  by  side  toward  the  house,  she 
drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Heigho !"  she  sighed.  "And  to  think  in  a  few  weeks  we'll 
have  left  all  this  behind  us  for  a  lovely,  lovely  farm  of  our 
own — a  beautiful  frame  house — folks  working  for  us  and — 
and  money  in  the  bank.  Say,  Frank,  isn't  it  a  beautiful 
world?  It  surely  is — some  world." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN   THE   MOONLIGHT 

ANGUS  MORAINE  flung  down  his  pen  impatiently.  Leaning 
back  in  his  chair  he  turned  toward  the  sunlit  window,  gazing 
through  it  at  the  distant  view  of  golden  wheat  as  a  man  will 
who  seeks  relief  from  intolerable  thought. 

His  thought  was  intolerable.  It  was  growing  more  and 
more  intolerable  as  the  days  passed  and  the  time  drew  on 
when  he  must  hand  Deep  Willows  over  to  his  successor. 

All  the  best  years  of  his  life  had  been  spent  in  the  making 
of  Deep  Willows,  All  his  energy,  all  that  was  best  in  him; 


202  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

these  things  had  been  given  freely,  without  stint,  without 
thought  of  sparing  himself  in  the  work,  and  he  believed  the 
result  to  be  a  worthy  achievement. 

But  it  was  not  yet  finished.  He  doubted  if  it  would  ever 
be  finished.  He  had  dreamed  his  dreams,  and  those  dreams 
had  carried  him  into  realms  of  such  colossal  fancy  that  he 
knew,  if  he  lived  to  a  hundred,  the  time  would  be  wholly 
inadequate  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  ambitions. 

The  wealth  which  must  inevitably  come  in  the  process  of 
the  achievement  he  had  set  himself  was  not  the  goal  he  desired 
to  win.  He  admitted  the  use  of  such  wealth,  and  knew  that 
without  it  the  rest  must  fall  to  the  ground.  But  his  dream 
was  of  achievement  alone.  He  had  no  desire  to  be  remem- 
bered for  the  fortune  he  had  amassed.  His  absorbing  passion 
was  to  be  thought  of,  by  coming  generations,  for  an  achieve- 
ment unlike  that  of  any  other. 

Deep  Willows  was  the  nucleus  about  which  he  had  hoped 
to  build  his  edifice.  Vaguely  he  saw  it  the  center  of  a  world 
of  wheat.  He  imagined  the  whole  prairie  lands  of  Canada 
clad  in  the  golden  raiment  of  a  perfect  wheat  harvest.  Not 
merely  a  farm,  but  a  country  of  wheat,  acknowledging  a 
single  control.  Nor  did  it  matter  to  him  whose  the  control 
so  long  as  his  was  the  making. 

This  was  his  dream  and  now— he  saw  it  fading  before  his 
very  eyes  at  the  whim  of  the  man  he  had  so  long  and  so 
faithfully  served.  The  thought  of  it  was  intolerable.  Some- 
times, even,  rebellion  choked  all  his  friendship,  all  his  loyalty 
to  the  man  who  had  made  something  of  the  realization  of  his 
dreams  possible. 

But  there  was  just  one  shadow  of  hope  left  to  him.  It 
was  very  slight,  very  vague,  and  he  hardly  understood 
whither  it  led,  he  hardly  knew  if  it  were  worth  serious  con- 
sideration at  all.  But  the  feeling  was  there ;  nor  would  it  be 
denied.  If  only  he  knew  what  far-reaching  scheme,  with  re- 
gard to  his  wife,  lay  in  the  back  of  Hendrie's  great  head  he 
might  feel  easier.  But  he  did  not  know,  and,  until  such 
schemes  were  put  into  practice,  he  was  not  likely  to  know. 
Still  the  fact  remained ;  Mrs.  Hendrie  had  been  appointed  his 
successor,  and,  since  that  appointment,  she  had  fallen  from 
her  high  place  in  her  husband's  regard,  or,  at  least,  was  tot- 
tering on  her  exalted  pedestal. 


IN    THE    MOONLIGHT  203 

The  thought  gave  him  some  slight  satisfaction.  If — if 
only  something  would  happen  in  time.  If — only.  He  felt  at 
that  moment  he  would  willingly  give  half  his  possessions  to 
be  able  to  search  the  hidden  recesses  of  Hendrie's  secret 
thought  and  find  out  for  certain — what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen. 

He  sighed  and  stirred  restlessly,  and,  as  he  did  so,  a  horse- 
man rode  past  the  window  and  pulled  up  at  his  door.  Then 
Angus  Moraine  did  something  quite  contrary  to  his  rule.  He 
rose  swiftly  from  his  chair,  and,  crossing  the  room  hastily, 
flung  open  the  door.  The  horseman  was  a  special  messenger 
he  had  sent  into  Everton. 

The  man  was  one  of  his  foremen,  a  young  Swede  to  whom 
he  generally  entrusted  any  confidential  duty. 

"Weil,  Jan?"  he  demanded,  with  something  like  cordiality, 
as  the  man  flung  out  of  the  saddle. 

The  Swede  dived  one  hand  into  the  bosom  of  his  loose 
cotton  shirt. 

"One  letter,  boss,"  he  replied,  producing  an  ordinary 
business  envelope. 

"Ah.  Anything  else?"  There  was  eagerness  in  Angus's 
inquiry  as  he  took  the  letter  and  read  the  address  in  Hendrie's 
handwriting. 

"Guess  I  took  a  peek  at  the  hotel  register,"  Jan  replied  at 
once. 

"Yes  ?"  There  was  a  further  quickening  of  interest  in  the 
manager's  tone. 

"I  see  the  name  you  wanted.  Frank  Smith.  Guess  he 
registered  in  at  dinner  time." 

The  narrow  eyes  of  the  Scot  lit. 

"At  dinner  time?" 

"Yep.    That's  how  it  was  marked.     Say " 

"Well?" 

"He's  a  tall  guy.  Sort  o'  tow  hair.  Young.  Maybe 
round  about  twenty?" 

Angus  nodded. 

'Then  I  see  him,  too.    He  was  sittin'  in  the  office." 

"Good." 

There  was  no  doubt  as  to  Moraine's  approval  now,  and 
Jan  felt  he  had  done  well. 

"Anything  else,  boss?"  he  inquired  confidently. 


204  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Angus  remained  thinking  for  some  seconds.  Then  he 
shook  his  head. 

"Nothing,"  he  said  finally. 

The  Swede  mounted  his  horse.  As  he  was  about  to  ride 
off  Angus  detained  him. 

"Send  me  over  my  horse,"  he  said  casually.  "After  that 
you  best  get  around  and  see  they're  setting  those  'smudge' 
fires  right.  We're  going  to  get  a  chill  to-night.  We  must 
do  what  we  can  to  keep  the  frost  out  of  the  crops." 

The  man  rode  off,  and  Angus  turned  back  into  his  office. 

The  manager's  mood  had  entirely  changed  for  the  better. 
A  sense  of  elation  had  replaced  the  desperate  irritation  of  a 
few  moments  before.  Was  something  going  to  happen  at  last? 
It  almost  looked  like  it.  Frank  Smith  had  registered  at  Ever- 
ton,  and  here  was  a  letter  from  Hendrie.  A  letter.  It  was 
not  Hendrie's  way  to  write  letters  with  the  telegraph  handy, 
and  the  telephone  to  his  hand.  He  sat  down  and  tore  the 
envelope  open. 

It  contained  eight  closely  written  sheets  of  very  thin  paper, 
and  Angus  smiled  as  he  realized  the  writer's  purpose.  The 
envelope  had  appeared  quite  thin.  There  had  been  nothing 
about  it  to  attract  attention  from  the  curious. 

Straightening  out  the  sheets  he  settled  himself  to  the  pe- 
rusal of  his  chief's  letter.  It  was  very  long,  and  full  of 
carefully  detailed  instructions.  Furthermore,  it  was  dated  at 
Gleber,  and  it  also  informed  him  of  Frank  Smith's  arrival  in 
Everton!  But  these  things  were  only  a  tithe  of  what  the 
letter  told  him.  It  told  him  so  much  that  his  whole  interest 
was  fully  engrossed,  and  a  curious  wonder  at  the  man  who 
had  written  it  stirred  within  him.  With  his  first  reading  of 
the  letter  a  wild  hope  leaped  within  him,  and,  by  the  time  he 
had  finished  his  second  reading,  he  realized  that  he  need  have 
no  further  fears  of  being  banished  from  Deep  Willows. 

The  "something"  he  had  longed  for  had  happened.  The 
scheming  mind  of  Alexander  Hendrie  had  revealed  itself  to 
him.  After  all,  fortune  was  with  him,  and  it  was  only  neces- 
sary for  him  to  carry  out  the  instructions  set  out  in  the  letter 
for  everything  to  be  as  he  wished. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  indulge  in  the  pleasurable  reac- 
tion inspired  by  his  letter.  His  orders  were  imperative  and 
demanded  prompt  attention.  Therefore  he  refolded  the 


IN    THE    MOONLIGHT  205 

pages  and  bestowed  them  safely.      Then,  when  liis  horse  ar- 
rived, he  set  out  at  once  in  the  direction  of  Everton. 

Angus  Moraine's  fears  of  a  summer  frost  looked  like  being 
realized.  The  night  closed  down  brilliantly  fine,  with  a 
threatening  chill  pervading  the  air.  There  was  no  wind,  and 
this  was  significant.  To  the  weatherwise  the  sudden  drop- 
ping of  the  thermometer  was  possible  at  any  moment,  and 
the  farming  world  might  easily  awaken  on  the  morrow  to  find 
the  harvest  prospects  destroyed,  and  the  highest  grade 
wheat  reduced  to  something  little  better  than  fodder  for 
hogs. 

The  full  moon  shone  down  upon  the  golden  world  with  a 
steely  gleam  upon  its  cold  face,  leaving  the  starry  sheet  of  a 
cloudless  sky  rendered  almost  invisible.  It  was  a  dreadfully 
perfect  night,  one  that  might  suit  lovers,  might  inspire  the 
romantic,  but  was  anathema  to  those  who  lived  by  the  pro- 
duce of  the  soil. 

The  village  of  Everton  was  very  still  and  silent  amid  the 
woodland  shadows  in  which  it  lay.  The  little  wooden  houses 
were  in  darkness,  and  no  sign  of  life  was  visible  anywhere, 
except  at  the  hotel,  where  the  yellow  lamplight  still  battled 
feebly  with  the  overwhelming  rays  of  the  brilliant  summer 
moon.  • 

At  that  moment  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  slumbering 
peacefully,  in  the  full  confidence  that  no  disturbing  elements 
were  abroad.  Peace — a  wonderful  peace,  such  as  is  only 
known  in  close  contact  with  the  soil,  seemed  to  reign  every- 
where. But  the  mind  and  heart  of  man  rarely  shares  in 
Nature's  gentler  moods.  In  waking  hours  the  great  battle  of 
life  is  always  raging,  and  in  sleep,  restless  dreaming  pursues 
its  victim.  There  is  little  enough  of  peace  for  striving 
humanity. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  the  glass  door  of  the  hotel 
was  pushed  open,  and  a  tall  man  stood  gazing  out  into  the 
brilliant  night.  The  doorway  was  narrow,  and  he  almost 
entirely  filled  it  up.  The  yellow  lamplight  from  behind  shone 
dully  upon  his  fair,  bare  head,  and  the  cold  moonlight  shed 
an  artificial  pallor  upon  his  good-looking  face. 

He  stood  for  some  moments  thus,  and  his  expression  was 
scarcely  happy.  He  seemed  lost  in  some  thought  which  gave 


206  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

him  little  enough  pleasure.  Presently  he  stirred  and  thrust 
the  prairie  hat  he  held  in  his  hand  upon  his  head,  and  drew 
the  brim  well  down  over  his  eyes.  Then  with  a  hunch  of  the 
shoulders,  the  deliberate  movement  as  of  a  man  spurring 
himself  to  an  unpleasant  task,  he  stepped  from  the  doorway 
out  into  the  full  light  of  the  moon. 

He  strode  off  down  the  trail,  white  in  the  brilliant  light, 
at  the  rapid,  swinging  gait  of  one  whose  destination  is  defi- 
nite, and  who  is  anxious  to  reach  it  with  as  little  delay  as 
possible. 

Presently  the  woodland  bluff  in  the  direction  of  the  river 
swallowed  him  up,  and  even  the  faint  sound  of  his  rapid  foot- 
steps became  lost  in  the  silence  that  seemed  to  close  over  him. 

Scarcely  had  the  last  sound  of  his  retreating  steps  died 
out  when  the  door  of  a  near-by  house  opened  and  a  man 
stepped  out  on  to  the  veranda.  This  house,  like  its  fellows, was 
in  darkness.  Nor  was  there  any  light  by  which  to  judge  his 
appearance,  but  that  which  was  shed  by  the  moon.  However, 
this  revealed  his  size,  which  was  much  above  the  average,  and 
showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  years  and  full  proportions. 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  gazing  about  him,  then,  as  an- 
other figure  appeared  round  the  side  of  the  hotel,  he  quickly 
left  his  veranda  and  hurried  across  the  intervening  space  to 
join  the  newcomer. 

After  a  few  moments'  earnest  conversation  they,  too,  set 
off  down  the  trail.  But  whereas  the  first  man's  movements 
were  devoid  of  any  attempt  at  concealment,  these  two  moved 
cautiously,  even  furtively,  as  though  they  had  no  desire  for 
recognition. 

Finally  the  woodland  bluff  swallowed  them  up,  and  all  was 
still  again. 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Within  ten  minutes  the  hotel 
door  was  again  thrust  open.  This  time  the  figure  that  ap- 
peared was  a  perfectly  familiar  one.  It  was  Angus  Moraine, 
and  he  was  accompanied  by  the  proprietor  of  the  place. 
There  was  apparently  nothing  unusual  about  him,  except  a 
marked  cordiality.  He  might  simply  have  been  terminating 
his  customary  evening  visit  of  recreation,  for,  as  he  appeared 
a  "hand"  brought  his  horse  round  from  the  barn,  and  stood 
awaiting  the  manager's  pleasure  to  mount. 

But  for  once  Angus  kept  him  waiting.     His  cordial  mood 


IN    THE    MOONLIGHT  207 

would  not  permit  of  a  hurried  departure,  and  he  stood  talk- 
ing to  his  companion  for  some  moments. 

"I  certainly  should  think  about  it,  Sharpe,"  he  said  ear- 
nestly. "Guess  I'm  not  a  feller  given  to  slinging  hot  air. 
I'd  start  to  build  quick.  Be  first.  When  a  place  begins  to 
boom  you  want  to  be  right  there,  and — collar  the  trade  be- 
fore other  folks  get  busy.  You  want  to  be  the  leading  hotel, 
and  if  my  help  in  the  way  of  patronage  and  recommendation 
is  worth  anything  to  you — why  you  can  have  it." 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe  listened  eagerly. 

"It's  real  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Moraine,"  he  said  warmly. 
"But  I'm  guessin'  it's  a  matter  of  capital.  If  this  place  is  to 
boom " 

"Capital?"  Angus  snorted.  "Pshaw,  man!  It's  nothing 
to  raise  the  capital." 

"No — o."  The  hotel  keeper  looked  dubious.  Then  he 
brightened.  "Say,  maybe  you  don't  fancy  comin'  in  on  the 
deal  yourself,  Mr.  Moraine?"  He  eyed  his  guest  shrewdly. 

The  next  moment  he  received  a  shock.  Angus  laughed. 
And  his  laugh  was  the  most  cordial  thing  Lionel  K.  Sharpe 
ever  remembered  to  have  heard  emanate  from  the  manager  of 
Deep  Willows. 

"Why,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  that  individual  declared, 
when  his  mirth  had  subsided.  Then  he  became  quite  serious. 
"Say,  it's  not  a  bad  idea  though.  You  see,  I'm  here  a  sort  of 
fixture  for  life,  and  I  guess  it  wouldn't  be  half  a  bad  scheme 
putting  my  odd  cents  into  a  bright  enterprise  in  Everton. 
Why,  yes,  I'll  think  it  over,  Sharpe,  I'll  surely  think  it  over." 

He  stepped  from  the  porch  and  took  his  horse  from  the 
patient  "hired"  man,  who  promptly  vanished  to  his  rest  in 
the  harness  room  of  the  barn.  He  sprang  lightly  into  the 
saddle. 

"That's  a  good  notion,  Sharpe,"  Angus  went  on,  as  he 
gathered  up  the  reins.  "Guess  we'd  run  a  cracking  hotel 
together.  Well,  so  long.  We'll  talk  it  over  later.  So  long." 

He  turned  his  horse  about  and  set  off  down  the  trail,  and, 
in  a  few  moments,  he,  too,  was  swallowed  up  by  the  woodland 
shadows. 


208      THE  WAY  OF  THE  STRONG 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PAYING    THE    PRICE 

THE  sumptuous  library  at  Deep  Willows  held  a  great  fasci- 
nation for  Monica.  She  used  it  in  her  solitary  moments,  dur- 
ing her  husband's  absences,  more  than  any  other  living-room 
in  the  great  house.  Perhaps  the  attraction  was  the  sugges- 
tion of  office  which  the  beautifully  carved  mahogany  desk 
gave  it.  There  was  the  great  safe,  too,  let  deep  into  the  wall 
just  behind  it,  with  its  disguising  simple  mahogany  door. 
There  were  the  elaborate  filing  drawers,  and  various  other 
appurtenances  necessary  in  a  room  where  business  was  trans- 
acted. Perhaps  these  things  helped  to  remind  her  of  other 
days,  days  that  had  been  often  troublesome,  but,  nevertheless, 
of  a  memory  that  was  very  dear. 

But  the  official  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  very  limited. 
There  was  nothing  official  in  the  bookcases  lining  the  walls, 
containing  their  hundreds  of  volumes  of  modern  and  classical 
literature.  There  was  nothing  suggestive  of  commerce  in  the 
bronzes  and  marble  statuary  which  adorned  the  various  an- 
tique plinths  and  pedestals.  And  the  pictures,  too,  modern 
certainly,  but  both  oil  and  water  colors  were  by  the  best  liv- 
ing masters.  Nor  were  the  priceless  Persian  rugs  the  floor 
coverings  one  would  expect  to  find  on  an  office  floor. 

Monica  loved  the  room.  There  was  the  character  of  the 
man  she  loved  peeping  out  from  every  corner  at  her,  every 
shelf  of  the  bookcases.  There  was  a  simple,  direct,  almost 
severe  style  about  the  place,  which  reminded  her  so  much  of 
the  strength  of  the  man  who  had  taken  possession  of  her  soul. 

Something  of  this  was  in  her  thought  as  she  sat  there  in 
a  comfortable  rocker  on  this  particular  night.  A  book  was 
in  her  lap,  but  she  was  not  reading.  There  was  too  much 
rioting  through  her  busy  brain  for  her  to  devour  the  transla- 
tion of  a  stodgy,  obscure  Greek  classic.  She  had  taken  the 
book  from  its  place  almost  at  haphazard,  as  women  sometimes 
will,  and  her  sincere  purpose  had  been  to  read  it.  But  her 
purpose  lacked  the  necessary  inclination,  the  moment  the 
cover  had  been  opened. 


PAYING    THE    PRICE 

She  made  a  beautiful  picture  sitting  there  in  the  soft  lamp- 
light. Her  elaborately  simple  evening  gown  was  delightfully 
seductive,  and  the  light  upon  her  fair  face  surmounted  by  its 
crown  of  waving  hair  completed  an  attraction  few  men  could 
have  resisted.  The  years  had  left  no  trace  of  their  rapid 
passing  in  her  outward  seeming,  unless  it  were  in  the  added 
beauty  of  her  perfect  figure.  She  was  happy,  very,  very 
happy,  and  to-night  even  more  so  than  usual. 

To-night !  Ah,  yes,  she  had  reason  to  be  happy  to-night. 
Was  it  not  the  night  when  the  culmination  of  so  many  little 
plans  of  hers  was  to  be  reached?  Little  plans  that  had  for 
their  inception  the  purest  affection,  the  most  tender  loyalty 
to  the  dead  as  well  as  the  living?  Monica  was  a  woman  to 
draw  the  most  perfect  happiness  from  such  feelings.  The 
mainspring  of  her  whole  nature  was  a  generous  kindliness,  an 
earnest  desire  for  all  that  belonged  to  the  better  side  of  life. 
She  knew  that  she  was  about  to  launch  two  young  people 
upon  the  great  rough  sea  of  life,  and  the  thought  that  her 
hand  was  to  pour  the  calming  oil  about  their  little  craft  was 
something  quite  exquisite  to  one  of  her  nature. 

Her  gaze  wandered  across  at  the  mahogany  door  of  the 
safe,  and  she  smiled  as  she  thought  that  behind  it  lay  the 
oil  awaiting  her  distribution.  From  the  safe  her  eyes  passed 
on  to  the  clock  upon  the  desk.  Its  hands  were  nearing  mid- 
night. She  was  glad.  They  could  not  move  fast  enough  for 
her  just  now. 

The  whole  house  was  silent.  The  servants  had  long  since 
retired;  even  her  maid,  that  stickler  for  her  duties,  had  been 
satisfactorily  dismissed  for  the  night.  Angus  had  returned. 
She  had  just  heard  him  ride  past  the  house  on  his  way  to 
hand  over  his  horse  to  the  sleepy  stable  hand  awaiting  him. 

There  was  nothing — nothing  at  all  to  interfere  with  her 

Hark! 

She  started  from  her  seat  and  darted  across  to  the  heavy 
curtains  drawn  over  the  French  window,  which  she  had  pur- 
posely left  open.  The  sound  of  steps  approaching  had 
reached  her.  She  stood  for  a  moment  with  hands  ready  to 
draw  the  curtains  aside.  Then  she  flung  them  open,  and,  with 
a  low  exclamation,  embraced  the  fair-haired  young  giant 
who  stepped  in  through  the  window. 

"Frank,  oh,  Frank,"  she  cried.    "My  dearest,  dearest  boy. 
15 


210  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

I'm  so  thankful  you've  come.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  fail  me 
in  spite  of — of  what  you  said  in  your  letter." 

The  young  man  gently  released  himself,  and  glanced  back 
shamefacedly  at  the  curtains  which  had  closed  behind  him. 

"That's  just  it,  mother,"  he  said,  his  honest  face  flushing. 
"I — I  just  hate  this  backdoor  business.  Oh,  I  know  it's  all 
right."  he  went  on,  as  Monica  shook  her  head.  "I  know 
there's  nothing  wrong  in  it.  How  can  there  be  ?  You  are  my 
mother.  It's  not  that.  It's  the  feeling  it  gives  me.  You 
don't  know  how  mean  it  makes  me  feel." 

"Of  course  it  does,  dear,"  Monica  said  soothingly.  "It  is 
like  you  to  feel  that  way.  You  have  always  been  the  soul  of 
honor,  and  you  feel  like  a  criminal  stealing  into  another 
man's  house.  But  you  are  not  trespassing,  my  dear.  Don't 
you  understand?  You  are  entering  a  house  to  which  you 
have  every  right.  Is  it  not  my  home,  and  am  I  not  your 
mother?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  man  broke  in,  almost  impatiently.  "That's 
where  the  trouble  comes.  You  are  my  mother.  What  if — if  I 
were  discovered?  What  if ?" 

Just  for  a  moment  a  slight  look  of  alarm  shadowed  Mon- 
ica's eyes.  In  the  joy  at  seeing  her  boy  again  she  had  lost 
sight  of  the  risk  this  visit  really  entailed.  But  she  recovered 
herself  quickly,  and  protested  with  a  lightness  she  did  not 
really  feel. 

"Don't  let's  think  of  it.  Alec  is  away,  and  the  whole  house- 
hold is  in  bed  and  asleep.  The  last  person  to  go  to  bed  here 
is  Angus  Moraine,  and  he  came  in  from  town  a  few  minutes 
ago.  So— 

"Angus  Moraine?"  Frank  raised  his  brows  inquiringly. 
"He  was  at  the  hotel.  I  saw  him  there.  I  have  seen  him 
often,  and — I  don't  think  I  like  him." 

Monica  smiled  as  she  walked  across  to  the  safe. 

"Sit  down  at  that  desk,  dear,"  she  said  happily,  "while  I 
hand  you  a  wedding  present,  birthday  present,  coming  of  age 
present,  all  rolled  into  one.  Talking  of  Angus,  I  don't  think 
I  like  him  either.  But  there,  we  two  are  very  much  the  same 
in  our  likes  and  dislikes,  aren't  we?"  Then  she  glanced  back 
at  the  huge  figure  obediently  settling  itself  at  the  desk  while 
she  fumbled  the  combination  of  the  lock.  "We  both  like  Phyl 
Ray  sun,  don't  we?"  she  added  slyly. 


PAYING    THE    PRICE 

Frank  jumped  up  from  his  chair,  and  his  young  face  had 
lost  its  last  look  of  trouble. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  like  her,  mother,"  he  cried.  "She's  a 
perfect  delight.  She's  so — so  wise,  too.  She's  simply  fear- 
fully clever.  You  noticed  that.  I  remember  you  said  so  in 
your  letter.  And — and  isn't  she  beautiful  ?" 

The  safe  door  swung  open,  and  Monica  drew  out  a  large 
bundle  of  notes. 

"She's  as  beautiful  as  only  a  lover's  eyes  can  see  her,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile.  "She's  such  a  delight,  and  so  beautiful, 
and  so  wise,  that  I'm  adding  a  dowry  to  the  amount  I  am  go- 
ing to  give  you  to  start  in  business  with.  It's  just  a  little 
extra  housekeeping  money." 

There  was  no  doubt  of  Monica's  happiness  at  that  moment. 
Her  eyes  were  shining  with  the  perfect  delight  of  giving  to 
those  she  loved. 

"Seriously,"  she  went  on,  "I'm  very  pleased  with  Phyl— 
a  pretty  name  by  the  way.  I'm  so  glad  she  is  poor,  and  has 
been  brought  up  as  she  has.  I  don't  think  you  could  possibly 
have  made  a  better  choice.  I'm  sure  she's  a  dear  girl.  Re- 
member, Frank,  you  must  always  treat  her  well.  She  adores 
you,  and  I  want  you  always  to  remember  that  a  good  woman's 
love  is  something  to  be  treasured  above — well,  everything. 
Though  I  am  a  woman,  I  warn  you  it  is  a  priceless  thing,  and 
something  which,  in  its  unreasoning  devotion,  in  its  utter  self- 
sacrifice,  in  its  yielding  up  of  all  its  most  sacred  thoughts  and 
feelings,  comes  straight  from  God  Himself.  Care  for  your 
little  Phyl  very  tenderly,  Frank." 

She  sighed  happily  and  glanced  down  at  the  notes  in  her 
hand.  Then  she  went  on — 

"Now  let  us  consider  something  much  more  material. 
Here  is  the  money,  dear.  There  are  twelve  thousand 
dollars  in  this  bundle  for  you,  and  another  five  thousand 
for  vour  Phyl,  and  all  my  love  to  you  both  goes  with 
them." 

Monica  laid  the  packet  of  notes  on  the  desk  in  front  of  the 
man,  who  stared  up  at  her  in  wondering  amazement. 

"Oh,  mother,"  he  cried,  "this  is  too  good  altogether.  You 
surely  don't  mean " 

But  his  protest  was  interrupted  by  the  sharp  ringing  of 
the  telephone  bell,  and  his  amazed  look  was  abruptly  changed 


THE    WAY   OF   THE    STRONG 

to  one  of  something  like  apprehension  as  he  stared  at  the 
wretched  instrument. 

But  the  sudden  emergency  found  Monica  alert.  She 
snatched  up  the  receiver  and  placed  it  against  her  ear. 

Two  men  moved  silently  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  house. 
Their  feet  gave  out  no  sound  as  they  stealthily  drew  on 
toward  the  library  windows.  They  were  not  walking  together, 
One  of  them  was  leading  by  some  yards,  as  though  he  were 
the  principal  actor  in  the  scene,  and  the  other  was  there  sim- 
ply to  obey  his  commands. 

The  face  of  the  leader  was  stern  and  set,  but  his  eyes  were 
shining  with  a  desperate  passion  which  belied  his  outward 
calm.  The  other  wore  a  more  impassive  look.  He  was  alert, 
but  displayed  neither  eagerness  nor  emotion. 

The  leader  drew  near  the  open  French  window  and  paused 
listening.  He  could  hear  voices ;  a  man's  and  a  woman's,  and 
for  a  moment,  wondered  that  the  window  had  been  left  open. 

Then  the  thought  was  quickly  followed  up  by  others  of  a 
very  different  nature,  while  his  ears  strained  to  catch  the 
words  passing  beyond  the  drawn  curtains.  But  the  sound 
was  muffled,  and  though  the  temptation  to  draw  nearer  was 
great  he  resisted  it.  He  was  waiting — waiting  for  something, 
and  the  strain  upon  his  patience  was  very  great. 

Then  suddenly,  faint  and  muffled,  he  heard  the  silvery 
ringing  of  a  telephone  bell.  He  breathed  a  sigh  as  of  relief, 
and,  signing  to  his  companion  to  remain  where  he  was,  moved 
cautiously  forward  until  he  stood  within  the  opening  of  the 
window. 

Now  he  could  plainly  hear  the  woman's  voice  at  the  tele- 
phone. It  was  sharp,  a  little  bit  unnatural,  but  it  was  plainly 
recognizable  and  familiar,  and,  at  the  sound  of  it,  the  man's 
teeth  shut  with  a  vicious  snap. 

"A  letter,  did  you  say?  Oh!  Yes,  I  heard  you  pass.  I 
was  busy  with  some  work.  .  .  .  Oh  you  must  see  me  to- 
night? .  .  .  Oh.  .  .  .  Imperative  I  act  on  his  instruc- 
tions to-morrow  morning.  ...  I  see.  .  .  .  Well,  if  it's 
so  important  I'll  come  along  to  your  office.  .  .  .  No,  don't 
come  to  me.  .  .  .  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment.  .  .  . 
You  won't  keep  me  more  than  a  few  minutes?  .  .  .  All 
right.  .  .  .  It's  no  trouble.*5 


PAYING    THE    PRICE 

The  waiting  man  heard  the  receiver  being  hung  up  in  its 
place.  Then  the  woman  began  speaking  rapidly  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"Oh,  Frank,  what  a  nuisance,"  she  cried,  in  unmistakable 
annoyance.  "It's  Angus  Moraine.  He's  had  a  letter  from 
Alec.  It's  full  of  important  instructions  which  he  wants  me 
to  act  on  to-morrow  morning,  so  I've  got  to  get  them  to-night. 
He  says  he  saw  a  light  in  the  library  when  he  passed  and  was 
relieved  to  find  I  was  still  up.  It  is  a  bother,  dear,  just  when 
I  wanted  to  be  with  you.  Still,  he  says  he  won't  keep  me  more 
than  a  few  minutes.  Just  think  of  it,  he  had  intended  to  come 
and  see  me.  Suppose  he  had." 

The  man's  answer  came  at  once. 

"If  he  had  the  game  would  have  been  up  all  right." 

The  woman  laughed. 

"Yes.  But  he  isn't  coming.  And  to  make  sure  I  must 
hurry.  Now  don't  you  go  dear.  It's  going  to  be  such  a  long 
time  before  I  see  you  again.  I  want  to  make  the  most  of  this 
opportunity.  You  wait  here.  I'll  be  back  directly." 

"What  if  any  one  comes?"  The  question  came  sharply 
from  the  man — and  the  eavesdropper's  lips  pursed  grimly. 

"No  one  will  come,"  said  the  woman  promptly. 

"But  suppose ?" 

"Well,  if  you  should  hear  any  one  coming,  if  you  should 
hear  anything  that  alarms  your  sensitive  soul,  why,  then  you 
have  the  money,  and  all  my  love,  take  them  both,  and  go  the 
way  you  came.  In  the  meantime,  in  case " 

The  man  at  the  window  writhed  as  he  heard  the  distinct 
sound  of  a  kiss.  The  control  he  was  exercising  was  strained 
to  its  limits.  The  next  moment  the  rustle  of  skirts,  and,  at 
last,  the  closing  of  a  door,  told  him  all  he  had  been  waiting 
for. 

Suddenly  he  drew  the  curtains  apart  and  closed  them 
sharply  behind  him. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

A  MAN'S  HONOR 

"WELL?" 

The  monosyllabic  challenge  bit  through  the  silence  of 
the  room.  It  was  hard,  cruel,  and  full  of  unmistakable 
menace. 

The  man  at  the  desk  leaped  from  his  seat  and  faced  about, 
glaring  in  the  direction  whence  the  voice  had  proceeded. 

He  faced  the  accusing  figure  of-  Alexander  Hendrie  with 
a  desperate,  hunted  look  in  his  widening  eyes,  and,  curiously, 
in  the  horror  of  the  moment,  amid  the  turmoil  of  alarm 
that  filled  his  heart  and  brain,  he  found  himself  surveying 
the  intruder  with  a  closeness  of  observation  only  to  be 
expected  in  moments  of  perfect  tranquility. 

His  eyes  caught  the  man's  mane  of  hair,  slightly  graying 
at  the  temples.  He  noted  the  cold  gleam  of  the  gray  eyes 
leveled  straight  at  his.  He  realized  the  meaning  of  the 
harsh,  tightly  compressed  mouth,  and  the  gripping  muscles 
of  the  wide,  bull-dog  jaw.  There  was  a  peculiar  hunch  to 
the  man's  broad  shoulders,  which  suggested  nothing  so  much 
as  an  animal  crouching  to  spring.  All  these  things  he  saw, 
and  read,  and  he  knew  that  a  merciless  fury  was  raging 
behind  the  calm  mask  of  this  husband  of  his  mother. 

In  a  flash  his  own  nerve  steadied,  and  a  desperate  calmness 
succeeded  the  first  shock  of  horror. 

"Well?"  he  retorted,  and  moistened  his  parching  lips. 

To  an  on-looker,  undisturbed  by  the  tension  of  the  moment, 
a  curious  realization  must  inevitably  have  occurred.  It 
was  the  extraordinary  likeness  existing  between  these  two. 
The  older  man  displayed  the  maturity  of  his  years  in  his 
increasing  bulk,  but  the  likeness  was  scarcely  lessened  by 
it.  There  was  the  same  hair,  the  same  cast  of  feature. 
The  younger  man's  eyes  were  blue  and  his  height  was  greater, 
but  the  breadth  of  shoulder,  the  bone  and  muscle  were 
similar. 

Yet    neither    of    them    realized   the   likeness.      All    their 


A    MAN'S    HONOR  215 

thought  was  eaten  up  by  a  growing  antagonism,  antagonism 
in  one  that  was  well-nigh  murderous,  and  in  the  other, 
simply  that  of  a  man,  who  finds  himself  pre- judged,  found 
guilty  and  sentenced  for  some  crime  of  which  he  is  wholly 
ignorant  and  innocent. 

Hendrie  caught  at  the  retort  with  lessening  restraint. 
He  pointed  at  the  open  safe  and  the  bundle  of  notes  which 
Frank  still  clutched  in  his  hand. 

"Red-handed,"  he  said.  Then  as  the  incredulous  youth 
made  a  movement  of  protest,  the  other's  hand  slipped  round 
to  his  hip  pocket  with  a  movement  not  to  be  mistaken. 
"Don't  move,"  he  said  quickly. 

Hendrie's  command  had  instant  effect.  Frank  stood  quite 
still.  Then  his  appalled  amazement  found  sudden  and  violent 
expression. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  mean?  Do  you 
take  me  for — a  low-down  thief?" 

Hendrie's  eyes  never  once  relaxed  their  cruel  stare. 

"What  are  you  then?" 

Frank  glanced  at  the  open  safe,  and  his  horrified  eyes 
came  back  to  the  pile  of  notes  he  was  still  grasping. 

"You  mean "  he  began.  Then  indignation  overcame 

every  other  feeling.  "This  money  was " 

Again  he  broke  off,  and  this  time  a  cold  sweat  broke  out 
upon  his  forehead.  Only  just  in  time  did  he  realize  what  the 
admission  he  was  about  to  make  would  entail.  Suddenly 
he  beheld  the  hideous  trap  gaping  to  ensnare  him. 

To  say  that  his  mother,  this  man's  wife,  had  given  him 
the  money,  that  her  hand  had  unlocked  the  safe,  that  he 
and  she  had  been  in  that  room  together,  would  be  to  betray 
her  secret  and  yield  up  to  the  last  man  in  the  world  whom 
she  wished  should  learn  it,  the  story  of — her  shame. 

His  throat  had  dried  up  suddenly,  and  an  awful  sickness 
pervaded  his  stomach.  His  imagination  became  fired. 
What  could  he  do?  The  possibility  of  such  a  situation  had 
never  entered  his  head.  He  was  helpless.  Explanation 
was  denied  him.  He  could  only  stand  there,  a  convicted 
felon,  caught,  as  Hendrie  had  so  mercilessly  declared,  "red- 
handed."  Not  for  one  moment  did  he  dream  of  taking  the 
other  course.  To  betray  his  mother,  the  woman  who  had 
devoted  her  life  to  him,  it  was  out  of  the  question.  His 


216  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

nature  was  incapable  of  such  a  tiling.  Cost  him  what  it 
might — even  life  itself — her  honor  was  safe  with  him. 

As  the  realization  of  his  terrible  position  came  to  him, 
a  fresh  anxiety  grew;  an  anxiety  that  was  wholly  unselfish. 
He  dreaded  lest  she  should  return.  He  knew  her  goodness, 
her  generosity.  That  painful  secret  she  had  hugged  to 
herself  for  all  these  long  years  would  be  promptly  yielded  up 
to  save  him.  He  prayed  that  her  return  to  the  room  might 
be  delayed  until — until 

He  looked  into  the  merciless  eyes  of  his  accuser  whose 
harsh  voice  broke  the  silence — 

"You  were  going  to  say  it  was  given  you.    Go  on." 

But  Frank  had  no  answer.  A  dogged  silence  seemed  to  be 
the  only  thing  possible,  and  Hendrie  was  left  to  do  the 
talking. 

"You  were  going  to  say  that  that  money  had  been  given 
you  by  some  one — my  wife?"  He  laughed  without  mirth. 
"Guess  you'd  best  finish  your  story.  Shall  I  send  for  my 
wife  to  corroborate  it?  How'd  you  fancy  that?  I'd  think 
a  thief  would  have  a  better  yarn  than  that.  The  money 
was  given  you!" 

The  man's  sarcasm  goaded  his  victim  beyond  endurance, 
and  dogged  silence  gave  way  before  it. 

"You  lie,"  he  cried  passionately.    "I  am  no  thief !" 

The  younger  man's  sudden  heat  was  not  without  its  effect 
upon  Hendrie.  A  flush  crept  over  his  level  brows.  It 
dyed  his  cheeks,  and  added  a  fresh  gleam  of  malignant  hatred 
to  the  cold  cruelty  of  his  eyes.  He  drew  a  step  nearer,  and 
pointed  at  the  chair. 

"Sit  down!"  he  commanded.  And  Frank  found  himself 
mechanically  obeying. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  Hendrie  went  on  with  a  delibera- 
tion that  contained  an  infinitely  greater  threat  than  any 
passionate  outburst  could  have  conveyed. 

"You're  a  thief,"  he  cried.  "Do  you  get  me?  A  thief. 
You're  a  low-down,  dirty  cur  of  a  thief,  not  half  as  good 
as  the  man  who  steals  money.  Say,  you're  the  sort  of  skunk 
who  steals  in  through  back  doors  chasing  other  men's  women- 
folk. You  came  to  steal  my  wife.  You've  been  at  the  game 
weeks.  You've  been  watched — both  of  you — you  and  your 
paramour.  Back !" 


THE  MAN  LEAPED  FROM  His  SEAT  AND  FACED  ABOUT 


A    MAN'S    HONOR  217 

In  a  wild  fury  Frank  precipitated  himself  from  his  chair 
to  choke  the  filthy  accusations  in  the  man's  throat.  But  he 
was  brought  to  a  stand  by  the  shining  muzzle  of  a  revolver, 
held  at  his  body. 

He  dropped  back  to  his  chair. 

"Say,  you  can  quit  that  right  here,"  Hendrie  went  on. 
"I'm  ready  for  any  play  that  way.  You  see,  I  fixed  this 
trap  for  you.  Guess  I  was  wise  to  your  being  here.  Say, 
you're  going  to  pay  for  your  gambol,  my  friend.  Maybe 
you  don't  know  what  you're  up  against,  You're  going  to 
pay — and  pay  bad.  Maybe  you  don't  know  what  my  money 
can  do.  It  can  do  a  heap,  and  I'm  ready  to  spend  my  last 
cent  so  you  get  the  dose  I  want  you  to  get. 

"But  you've  made  it  easy  for  me.  Plumb  easy.  I  find 
you  here  with  my  safe  open,  and  a  pile  of  money  taken  from 
it.  A  safe  robber,  eh?  The  money  in  your  hand,  and  you 
got  in  through  this  window.  Get  me?  Burglary.  House- 
breaking.  Safe-robbing.  When  the  law's  fixed  you  right 
for  that,  and  you've  served  your  term — then,  why,  I  guess 
there's  more  to  follow.  Say,  you're  going  to  get  it  good  for 
just  so  long  as  we  both  live.  I'm  going  to  beat  you  down, 
down,  down,  till  I've  crushed  you  out  of  your  rotten  existence. 

"Oh,  I  know  you've  not  stolen  that  money,"  he  went  on 
savagely.  "I  know  that.  I  recognize  you  for  the  man 
whose  picture  I  tore  up  in  my  wife's  rooms  before  I  married 
her.  You're  her  lover,  I  know,  but  you're  going  to  be  treated 
just  as  hard  as  the  law  can  fix  you  for — those  other  things." 

Under  the  merciless  lash  of  the  millionaire's  tongue  Frank 
grew  steadily  calmer.  But  it  was  the  calm  of  despair.  Full 
well  he  saw  the  hopelessness  of  his  position.  He  had  been 
trapped  beyond  all  chance  of  escape,  and  even  ill  luck  had 
worked  for  his  undoing.  As  Hendrie  paused  he  felt,  though 
he  knew  denial  was  useless,  that  he  must  make  a  final 
effort. 

"I  tell  you,  you  are  wrong — utterly  wrong,"  he  cried 
desperately.  "I  have  never  stolen  anything  in  my  life. 
As  for  your  wife,  if  you  would  only  put  this  madness  out 
of  your  head  you  would  see  that  there  is  only  one  man  in  all 
the  world  she  loves,  and  that  man  is  you.  Oh,  I  know  it's 
useless  to  deny  anything  while  you  are  in  this  state  of  mind. 
But  it  is  as  I  say.  You  can  do  your  worst  with  me.  You 


218  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

can  employ  jour  millions  as  you  choose  for  my  hurt,  but 
I  tell  you  the  day  will  come  when  you  will  regret  it,  regret 
the  wrong  you  are  doing  your  wife — me,  and  would  give 
your  right  hand  to  undo  the  mischief  you  have  wrought 
through  this — this  insane  jealousy." 

The  millionaire  gazed  at  the  earnest  young  face,  and 
slowly  a  smile  grew  in  his  eyes,  a  smile  which  only  rendered 
their  expression  more  tigerish. 

"Come,"  he  said,  in  his  level  tones,  "that's  better.  If 
what  you  say  is  true  guess  the  whole  thing's  up  to  you. 
You'll  have  your  opportunity  in  the  prisoner's  dock.  Just 
explain  things  to  the  court,  to  the  press  reporters,  waiting 
to  telegraph  the  news  all  over  America.  Just  tell  'em  what 
your  relations  with  the  wife  of  Alexander  Hendrie  are. 
Call  her  a  witness  that  she  gave  you  that  money.  Do  this. 
I'll  be  satisfied  for  you  to  do  it.  But  remember  when  you 
get  through  with  the  court,  you're  not  through  with  me." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  drew  the  curtains  apart  while 
Frank's  desperate  eyes  followed  his  movements.  There  was 
no  thought  in  the  youngster's  mind  of  anything  but  the 
absolute  fiendishness  in  the  man's  final  proposal.  The 
heartless  subtlety  of  it  was  tremendous. 

Call  his  mother  a  witness !  Call  her  a  witness  with  a 
ravening  horde  of  reporters  gasping  for  scandal.  He  under- 
stood that  Hendrie  believed  he  would  expose  her  to  the  shame 
of  this  liaison,  and  so  punish  her  by  such  a  process.  He 
knew  how  little  the  man  guessed  the  awakening  such  a  course 
would  in  all  probability  bring  him. 

In  that  moment  Frank  saw  more  clearly  than  ever  the 
necessity  for  silence  and  submission.  But,  realizing  these 
things,  he  saw,  too,  an  added  danger. 

"One  moment,"  he  said,  with  studied  calmness.  He  had 
half  read  the  other's  intention  as  he  moved  the  curtains. 
"What  will  happen  when — Mrs.  Hendrie  hears  of  my  con- 
viction. Have  you  considered  that?" 

The  millionaire  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  A  triumphant 
light  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"Guess  I've  considered  everything.  Your — paramour — 
after  to-night,  will  never  see  or  hear  of  you  again — unless 
you  call  her  as  a  witness  at  your  trial." 

He  waited  for  the  anticipated  outburst.     But  it  did  not 


A    MAN'S    HONOR  219 

come.  To  his  surprise  his  victim's  face  was  smiling,  and 
the  sight  of  it  set  him  searching  for  its  cause. 

Frank  nodded. 

"Right,"  he  said,  almost  cheerily.  "You  can  call  your 
man.  I  have  no  intention  to  resist — now." 

The  next  moment  a  man  stepped  into  the  room  through 
the  parted  curtains.  Frank  surveyed  him  almost  indiffer- 
ently. He  recognized  him  as  Douglas,  the  Sheriff  of  Everton. 
It  was  a  recognition  that  told  him,  had  he  needed  to  be 
told,  that  the  millionaire's  purpose  was  no  "bluff/5 

His  heart  sank,  but  his  determination  remained  unaltered. 
He  thought  of  Phyllis,  he  thought  of  the  farm  he  was  to 
have  purchased,  he  thought  of  a  hundred  and  one  things, 
and,  though  he  gave  no  outward  sign,  he  felt  he  could  almost 
have  wept. 

Presently  he  was  roused  by  their  touch  as  the  cold  irons 
were  slipped  upon  his  wrists,  and  he  heard  Hendrie  delivering 
his  charge  to  the  sheriff. 

Then  he  found  himself  standing  up.  Somebody  passed  him 
his  hat.  Then  he  knew  that  he  was  walking  beside  the 
sheriff,  and  passing  out  of  the  room  by  the  window  through 
which  he  had  entered  it. 

Alexander  Hendrie  gazed  after  the  two  retreating  figures 
until  the  ground  seemed  to  swallow  them  up  as  they  dropped 
down  to  the  lower  level  of  the  river-bank,  where  the  trail 
for  Everton  ran  along  it.  Then  he  turned  back  to  the  room. 

He  crossed  swiftly  to  the  safe  and  closed  it.  He  thrust  the 
packet  of  money  into  an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat.  Then 
he  set  the  chair  at  the  desk  straight.  After  that  he  passed 
out  through  the  window,  carefully  closing  it  behind  him. 

Ten  minutes  later  a  high-powered  automobile  was  ap- 
proaching Deep  Willows  by  the  Everton  trail.  It  only  had 
two  occupants.  The  chauffeur  was  in  the  driving  seat.  Be- 
hind him,  surrounded  by  his  baggage,  and  enveloped  in  his 
heavy  traveling  coat,  sat  Alexander  Hendrie. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE  RETURN   OF  ALEXANDER   HENDRIE 

"GUESS  he  won't  make  home  to-night,  man." 

Angus  Moraine  broke  the  silence  which  followed  on  the 
protracted,  but  absorbing  discussion  which  had  just  taken 
place  in  the  stuffy  precincts  of  his  office. 

Monica  smiled.  She  was  sitting  in  a  well-worn  chair, 
Angus  Moraine's  own  particular  chair,  which  he  had  placed 
for  her  beside  his  desk  in  the  full  light  of  the  lamp,  and 
directly  facing  him. 

"It's  impossible  to  say,"  she  replied,  with  the  confidence 
of  her  understanding  of  the  man  under  discussion.  "If 
business  does  not  interfere,  and  the  mood  takes  him,  Mr. 
Hendrie  will  be  home  to-night." 

Her  manner  was  delighted.  She  was  feeling  very  happy. 
Such  had  been  her  interest  in  Angus's  news,  and  the  earnest 
discussion  of  affairs  involved  in  her  husband's  letter  to  his 
manager,  that,  for  the  moment,  all  thought  of  Frank  waiting 
for  her  in  the  library  at  the  far  end  of  the  house  had  passed 
out  of  her  head. 

She  had  visited  this  man  with  no  sort  of  feeling  of  friendli- 
ness, with  nothing  but  resentment  at  the  interruption,  but 
the  moment  she  entered  the  tobacco-laden  atmosphere  of 
his  room,  and  glanced  at  the  long  letter  which  Angus 
promptly  handed  her,  all  her  displeasure  vanished,  and  she 
became  fully  interested. 

Nor  was  the  change  to  be  wondered  at.  The  letter  was 
one  which  had  been  written  with  the  express  purpose  of  inter- 
esting her.  It  was  not  the  brief,  terse  letter  of  a  business 
man.  Every  word  had  been  carefully  considered.  The 
writer's  whole  object  had  been  to  afford  food  for  discussion, 
that  his  instructions  to  Angus,  to  keep  her  there  for  a  definite 
time,  might  the  more  easily  be  carried  out. 

The  paragraph  which  chiefly  held  her  interest  had  been 
subtly  placed  by  the  writer  at  the  opening  of  the  letter. 

"There  is  a  big  labor  movement  afoot,"  he  wrote.    "It 
is  normally  the  bonding  of  all  agriculturalists,  and  has 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALEXANDER  HENDRIE 

for  its  stated  purpose  their  protection  against  em- 
ployers. This  may  be  so.  But  I  have  a  shrewd  idea 
that  the  primary  object  is  the  furthering  of  the  Socialis- 
tic movement  that  is  causing  so  much  harm  to  the 
world's  industries,  and  is  fostering  the  deplorable  dis- 
content prevailing  in  labor  circles  all  the  world  over. 
However,  with  such  a  movement  afoot,  it  is,  of  course, 
quite  impossible  to  forecast  what  unpleasant  develop- 
ments the  near  future  may  have  for  us  at  Deep  Willows. 

"In  removing  you,  and  leaving  Mrs.  Hendrie  in  con- 
trol of  my  interests  there,  I  am  confident  enough  of 
successful  operation  in  the  ordinary  way.  But  under 
these  new  conditions  I  do  not  feel  so  sure.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  necessity  for  the  strength  of  a  man's 
controlling  hand  in  dealing  with  the  situation  will  soon 
make  itself  apparent.  Therefore  it  is  better  to  anti- 
cipate. Such  anticipation  will  cause  a  change  of  plans 
which,  for  some  reasons,  I  reluctantly  intend  to  make, 
and,  for  others,  leaves  me  well  enough  satisfied. 

"I  shall,  therefore,  require  you  to  remain  at  Deep 
Willows,  and  I  will  ask  you  to  see  Mrs.  Hendrie  at  once, 
convey  her  my  compliments,  and  urgently  request  her 
to  join  me  in  Winnipeg  by  the  first  east-bound  mail.  I 
must  confess  this  change  falls  in  with  the  present  trend 
of  my  business  as  well  as,  I  need  hardly  say,  my  per- 
sonal inclinations.  I  find  that  affairs  will  keep  me  pretty 
well  tied  to  Winnipeg  and  its  surroundings,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  tours  I  shall  soon  have  to  make  from 
these  headquarters.  There  is  also  a  great  deal  to  be 
done  on  the  social  side.  It  is  becoming  more  and  more 
necessary  to  entertain  largely,  and  this,  of  course,  I 
cannot  do  without  my  wife's  co-operation.  So,  perhaps, 
all  things  considered,  the  change  will  turn  out  for  the 
best. 

"I  am  sorely  pressed  for  time  or  I  should  have  writ- 
ten Mrs.  Hendrie  fully  on  the  subject.  But,  as  this 
would  have  entailed  two  long  letters  of  explanation,  and 
since  it  is  imperative  to  write  you  upon  other  matters 
relating  to  the  work  in  hand,  I  must  ask  you  to  convey 
my  apologies  to  my  wife  for  thus  sending  her  instruc- 
tions through  a  third  party.  Any  way,  this  letter  is 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

only  precautionary  lest  I  should  not  be  able  to  reach 
Deep  Willows  as  I  hope  to." 

Just  for  one  moment,  while  reading,  Monica  had  ex- 
perienced the  slightest  feeling  of  pique  that  her  husband 
should  have  chosen  Angus  as  the  recipient  of  his  instructions 
for  herself.  But  such  smallness  was  quickly  banished  as  she 
read  on  to  the  end  of  the  letter,  through  a  perfect  maze  of 
intricate  orders  and  countermandings  of  affairs  connected 
with  Deep  Willows.  She  realized  that  it  would  have  been 
perfectly  ridiculous  to  send  this  letter  to  her,  and  as  he  was 
"sorely  pressed  for  time"  the  excuse  was  more  than  sufficient. 

So  she  readily  entered  into  the  discussion  which  followed 
her  reading  of  the  letter.  Even  if  he  did  not  reach  Deep 
Willows  she  was  to  rejoin  her  husband  permanently,  and 
this  was  far  more  to  her  taste  than  to  work  apart  from  him, 
even  though  she  knew  it  was  in  his  best  interests. 

In  the  discussion  Angus  surpassed  himself  for  interest 
and  amiability,  and  Monica  found  herself  wondering  how 
it  was  she  had  hitherto  had  such  a  dislike  for  him.  Had 
she  only  known  it  the  man  was  only  carrying  out  secret  in- 
structions, which  became  all  the  more  easy  since  the  change 
of  plans  had  left  him  free  from  the  nightmare  of  leaving 
Deep  Willows,  which  had  pursued  him  for  so  many  days. 

Yes,  Angus  found  it  very  pleasant,  very  easy  talking  to 
this  brilliantly  handsome  woman,  whose  physical  charms 
might  well  have  found  warmth  in  an  iceberg.  And,  curiously 
enough,  now  that  her  husband  was  aware  of  what  he  believed 
to  be  the  laxity  of  her  morals,  he  no  longer  viewed  them  with 
so  much  resentment. 

So  pleasant  did  he  make  himself,  so  interesting  in  his  wide 
knowledge  of  her  husband's  affairs,  that  Monica  found  herself 
talking  on  and  on,  with  no  thought  of  the  rapidly  passing 
time.  She  was  utterly  absorbed  in  the  man  whose  life  she 
shared,  absorbed  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else — even  the  waiting 
Frank. 

Now  they  were  considering  Hendrie's  possible  return  that 
night.  Angus  had  done  his  work,  and  was  waiting,  sitting 
there  expectantly  till  the  time  of  the  final  development  which 
was  yet  to  come. 

"It'll  need  to  be  a  'special,'  mam,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALEXANDER  HENDRIE 

Monica  laughed  lightly. 

"Then  let  it  be  a  'special.'  That,  and  his  automobile,  will 
serve  him  well  enough.  You  see — 

She  broke  off  listening.  Faintly,  but  quite  distinctly, 
the  low  purr  of  a  high-powered  car  penetrated  the  dense 
atmosphere  of  the  office. 

Angus  started  up.  He,  too,  heard  the  sound,  and  he  turned 
to  the  waiting  woman. 

"Guess  it  was  a  'special'  all  right.     Say " 

He  broke  off  as  his  narrow  eyes  took  in  the  expression 
of  Monica's  face.  %  He  ran  to  her  side  as  though  to  support 
her. 

"You're  faint,  mam!"  he  cried.  "It's  the  heat  of  this 
room.  It's — 

But  Monica  shook  him  off.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale, 
and  she  stood  supporting  herself  against  the  arm  of  her  chair. 
Her  eyes  were  alight  with  a  dreadful  alarm,  as  she  gazed 
incredulously  at  the  hands  of  the  clock  on  the  desk. 

It  was  half-past  one,  and  all  this  time  Frank  had  been  wait- 
ing in  the  library  for  her.  The  thought  of  her  folly  and 
carelessness  was  maddening.  She  would  never,  never  forgive 
herself  if  harm  came  through  it.  Harm?  It  must  not. 
She  must  get  away  at  once.  She  must  give  him  warning. 

Then  she  remembered  her  companion.  His  sharp  eyes 
were  upon  her.  With  a  great  effort  she  pulled  herself  to- 
gether. It  would  be  fatal  for  him  to  realize  the  truth  of  her 
feelings.  She  forced  herself  to  a  reassuring  smile. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  said,  passing  one  hand  wearily  across 
her  forehead.  "Just  the  heat  of  the  room." 

Angus's  face  remained  a  picture  of  concern,  and  she  was 
satisfied. 

"I'll  go  and  open  the  front  door,"  she  said,  with  studied 
calmness.  "Everybody  is  in  bed.  I — 

Angus  had  turned  to  the  door,  and  now  opened  it.  In 
doing  so  Monica's  attempt  to  leave  the  room  was  frustrated, 
for  he  raised  a  warning  hand,  and  she  found  herself  forced 
to  listen  as  well. 

Presently  his  eyes  met  hers. 

"Guess  you  don't  need  to  worry  with  that  door,"  he  said. 
"He's  coming  along  over  the  upper  trail.  He'll  pass  us 
here." 


224*  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

So  Monica  had  no  alternative.  She  must  remain.  And 
this  knowledge  threw  her  into  a  fresh  fever  of  apprehension. 
She  searched  for  further  excuse.  But  none  was  forthcoming. 
Her  tumultuous  brain  refused  to  serve  her,  and,  in  a  few 
moments,  there  came  the  ominous  metallic  clank  as  the  clutch 
was  released,  and  the  breaks  drew  the  millionaire's  machine 
to  a  standstill  at  the  door. 

It  was  too  late.  Already  her  husband's  voice  could  be 
heard  talking  to  the  chauffeur. 

"Hand  me  that  suit  case  and  leave  the  rest  in  the  car," 
he  said.  "You  best  get  to  bed,  and  be  ready  for  an  early 
start  tomorrow." 

There  was  nothing  left  for  Monica  but  to  go  out  and  meet 
him. 

In  spite  of  her  trouble  it  was  good  to  see  her  husband  again. 
But  even  while  she  listened  to  his  greeting  the  thought 
whirled  through  her  brain,  had  Frank  heard  his  arrival,  too  ? 
Had  he  made  good  his  escape? 

"Why,  Mon,  this  is  great.     I  hadn't  expected  it." 

Hendrie  spoke  heartily.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
delight  of  his  manner,  and  the  troubled  woman  felt  a  thrill 
of  satisfaction,  even  though  danger  was  pressing. 

"Gee,  I've  moved  some  to  get  here,"  he  went  on.  Then 
he  came  up  to  her  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  and,  under 
the  watchful  eyes  of  Angus,  embraced  her  warmly. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  her  off  at  arm's  length. 

"But  what  are  you  doing  up  at  this  hour?"  he  demanded, 
with  pretended  severity.  Then  he  turned  to  his  manager 
with  a  laugh.  "Keeping  late  hours  with  you,  Angus,  my 
friend?  It  won't  do." 

"You've  got  your  own  letter  to  blame  for  that,  Alec," 
retorted  Monica.  "If  you  must  send  messages  to  your  wife 
through  Angus — you  must  expect  the — unexpected."  She 
laughed  in  spite  of  her  anxiety. 

Hendrie  responded  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  as  long  as  he's  told  you  everything  I'll  forgive 
him — this  time.  Say," — he  drew  out  his  cigar  case  and 
carefully  selected  a  cigar.  His  eyes  were  shadowed  for  a 
moment,  and  their  expression  was  hidden  from  his  wife — 
"will  you  be  able  to  start  East  first  thing  to-morrow.  It's — 
important." 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALEXANDER  HENDRIE 

There  was  emphasis  in  his  last  remark,  and  the  eyes  he 
raised  to  his  wife's  face  were  gently  commanding. 

Monica  took  him  literally.  She  was  only  too  glad  to  be 
able  to  fall  in  with  his  wishes. 

''Why  yes,  dear,"  she  said  at  once.  "We  can  go  on 
ahead,  and  Margaret  can  pack  up  and  follow  later.  That 
will  be  quite  easy." 

The  command  died  out  of  the  man's  eyes  as  he  surveyed 
her.  She  was  very,  very  beautiful  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
lamplight.  Her  fascination  for  him  was  enormous.  Then 
her  readiness  to  please  him.  No  one  but  a  man  afflicted  with 
his  insane  jealousy  could  have  doubted  her  perfect,  utter 
devotion  to  him. 

But  Hendrie  was  an  unusual  man.  His  extraordinary 
powers  were  so  abnormally  developed  that  perhaps  there 
was  a  slight  lack  of  balance.  The  driving  force  which  urged 
him  left  him  little  margin  for  the  more  subtle  understanding 
of  human  nature.  He  lived  at  fever  heat.  He  had  no  desire 
to  seek  understanding  through  tolerance.  It  was  for  him 
to  dominate.  It  was  for  him  to  bend,  and  even  break,  those 
who  ran  foul  of  his  will. 

"Splendid,  Mon,"  he  cried,  as  he  pierced  the  end  of  his 
cigar  and  placed  it  firmly  between  his  teeth.  "You're  always 
ready  to  help  me.  Splendid."  His  eyes  shot  a  quick  glance 
at  Angus,  who  was  standing  watchfully  by. 

"Now  see,  Mon,"  he  went  on.  "You  best  get  right  off  to 
bed.  It's  devilish  late,  and  you've  got  some  journey  in 
front  of  you.  Just  give  me  half  an  hour  with  Angus  while 
I  smoke  this  cigar  and  I'll  join  you." 

Monica's  heart  leaped.  Here  was  all  she  needed  to  dispel 
the  last  shadow.  She  could  warn 

"Yes,  I  am  tired,  dear,"  she  said  readily.  "It's  been  a 
long  day,  and  I  have  been  working  hard." 

Hendrie  nodded. 

"Sure  you  have." 

"Still  it  doesn't  matter,"  the  simple  woman  went  on. 
"There's  lots  and  lots  of  work  still  before  us.  And  Angus," 
she  smiled  over  at  the  Scot  playfully,  " — well,  I  think  he's 
really  glad  I'm  going.  Aren't  you?" 

Angus  flushed.     Then  his  eyes  met  the  curious  gleam  in 

his  employer's. 
16 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"I  think  it's  best  I  stay,  mam,"  he  said  guardedly.  "If 
labor  troubles  get  busy  I'd  say  I'm  the  more  fitted  to  deal 
with  them." 

"Of  course  you  are."  Monica  was  quite  herself  again,  and 
she  laughed  as  she  picked  up  her  husband's  suit  case.  "I'll 
take  this  along  for  you,  dear,"  she  went  on.  "Good  night, 
Angus.  Good  night,  Alec — for  the  present." 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room,  bearing  the  suit  case  in  her 
hand,  and,  replying  to  her  salutation,  the  two  men  stood 
watching  her  as  she  went. 

The  door  closed. 

For  some  moments  Hendrie  did  not  move.  His  great  head 
was  slightly  inclined  out  of  its  usual  erect  position.  Angus 
waited  for  him  to  speak.  For  himself  he  had  nothing  to 
say. 

At  last  the  cigar  in  the  millionaire's  mouth  was  tilted  and 
he  turned.  He  reached  out  and  drew  the  chair  Monica  had 
occupied  toward  him.  Then  he  sat  down  quite  suddenly. 

"Guess  she'll  find  the  library  empty,"  he  said,  in  a  curi- 
ously dull  tone.  He  crossed  his  legs  and  reached  for  a 
match.  "He's  well  on  his  way  to  Calford — now,"  he  added, 
without  enthusiasm. 

Angus  nodded. 

"They've  got  him?" 

The  millionaire  did  not  answer.  Nor  did  he  display 
the  least  elation  at  the  success  of  the  trap  he  had  laid  and 
successfully  worked. 

Only  the  stony  light  of  his  eyes  remained.  If  he  had 
no  elation  it  is  doubtful  that  he  possessed  any  feeling  of  a 
gentler  nature.  He  had  simply  done  what  he  had  set  out 
to  do — done  the  thing  he  intended,  as  he  always  did.  He 
rarely  experienced  any  feeling  of  triumph  in  the  working  of 
his  plans.  That  he  possessed  passionate  human  feelings 
there  was  little  enough  doubt.  But  these  were  quite  apart 
from  the  scheming  of  his  machine-like  brain. 

His  cigar  glowed  under  the  pressure  at  which  he  was 
smoking,  and  this  was  the  only  indication  Angus  beheld  of 
any  unusual  emotion. 

The  manager  stirred  uneasily  at  the  lengthening  silence. 

"She  tried  to  go — when  you  first  came,"  he  said  hesitat- 
ingly. 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALEXANDER  HENDRIE 

Hendrie  only  nodded,  and  the  quick  glance  of  his  eyes 
silenced  any  further  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  other. 

Angus  watched  him  silently,  and,  as  he  watched,  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  that  somehow  the  man's  great  figure  had 
shrunk.  Maybe  it  was  the  way  he  was  sitting,  huddled  in 
his  chair.  Certainly  the  old  command  of  his  personality 
seemed  to  have  lessened,  he  looked  older,  and  there  was  a 
curious,  gray  look  about  his  face.  He  looked  weary,  an 
utterly  tired  man.  Yes,  if  he  could  only  have  associated 
such  a  thing  with  Alexander  Hendrie,  he  looked  like — a 
beaten  man. 

But  at  last  the  silence  was  broken,  and  with  it  vanished 
the  last  sign  which  Angus  had  read  so  pessimistically  in  his 
employer.  The  great  head  was  lifted  alertly,  and  the  steady 
eyes  lit  anew. 

"Guess  you  don't  know  much  about  women,  Angus,"  he 
said  thoughtfully. 

Angus  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  want  to,"  he  replied  coldly.  "Guess  I  got  all 
I  need  worrying  out  wheat." 

The  other  accepted  the  denial,  and  went  on — 

"Maybe  I  don't  know  as  much  as  I  ought — at  my  age. 
Maybe  we've  both  been  too  busy — worrying  wheat." 

Angus  smiled  coldly.  But  there  was  no  smile  in  Hendrie's 
eyes.  He  was  gazing  steadily  before  him,  his  cigar  poised, 
forgotten,  in  his  hand.  He  had  definitely  addressed  himself 
to  Angus,  but  now  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  presence. 

"Pshaw!  What's  the  use?"  he  cried  suddenly,  with  an 
irritable  shift  of  his  position.  "It's  not  the  woman's  fault — 
ever.  It's  the  man's — the  dirty,  low-down  cur  who  can 
always  trade  on  her  weakness.  I  ought  to  know.  By  God! 
I  ought  to  know." 

He  picked  up  a  match  almost  mechanically  and  struck  it. 
But  his  cigar  remained  where  it  was,  and  the  match  was 
allowed  to  burn  out  in  his  fingers.  He  threw  the  end  of  it 
away  with  a  vicious  movement. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  and  caught  his  manager's  eyes 
fixed  on  him  curiously. 

"What  are  you  staring  at,  man?"  he  cried.  Then  with 
sudden  heat,  "What  in  hell  are  you  staring  at?  Do  you 
think  me  a  doddering  fool — a  weak  imbecile?  That's  it!" 


228  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

he  cried,  working  himself  up  into  a  sort  of  frenzy,  and  break- 
ing into  a  laugh,  as  terrible  a  sound  as  Angus  remembered 
to  have  heard.  "I  tell  you  she's  not  to  blame,"  he  went  on 
furiously.  "I  tell  you  I'll  not  give  her  up.  Say,  you  cold- 
blooded, herring-bodied  Scotchman,  have  you  ever  loved  a 
woman  in  the  whole  of  your  grouchy  life?"  Again  he 
laughed.  Again  Angus  felt  the  horror  of  it.  "Never!"  he 
went  on  furiously.  "Never,  never,  never!  Love?  God,  it's 
hell !  Thank  your  God,  you  miserable,  cold-blooded  fish,  you 
are  incapable  of  loving  any  woman." 

He  reached  out  again  for  a  match  and  struck  it.  But  he 
threw  it  away  from  him  at  once. 

"I  can't  give  her  up,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  passionate  tone. 
"I  can  win  her  back.  I  will  win  her  back."  His  voice  rose. 
"She  is  mine,  and  he — God  have  mercy  on  him,  for  I  won't. 
Say,  there's  hell  waiting  for  him.  He'll  be  tried  and  con- 
demned, and  not  a  word  of  his  trial  will  reach  the  outside 
world.  He  is  utterly  cut  off  from  the  world.  I  have  seen 
to  that.  And  then  afterwards.  By  God,  I'll  hunt  him 
down.  I'll  hunt  him  to  his  grave,  if  it  costs  me  every  cent 
I  possess.  Rob  me?  He  would  rob  me  of — my  love?  Love? 
It's  the  worst  hell  ever  man  blindly  fell  into,  but — it's 
worth  while." 

Again  he  broke  off,  and  his  companion  waited  uneasily 
for  what  might  yet  come.  He  knew  that  for  the  moment 
something  like  madness  had  been  turned  loose  in  him.  A 
passing  madness,  but  still  something  to  be  dreaded. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  All  abruptly  the  gray  eyes  lit 
anew,  and  flashed  in  his  direction. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?"  he  cried  fiercely.  "Why 
do  you  sit  there  in  silence?  Are  you  afraid  to  speak?  Bah! 
Say,  Angus,  when  you  told  me  those  things  I  promised  you, 
if  they  were  not  true,  I'd — kill  you.  You  remember?  They 
were  true.  And  because  they  were  true" — the  man's  eyes 
glowered — "I'd  like — to  kill  you — anyway.  Yes,  I'd  like 
to  tear  your  miserable  heart  out  of  you,  as  you  have  helped 
to  tear  the  heart  out  of  me." 

Angus  offered  no  protest.  He  sat  there  still  and  watchful. 
He  knew  that  the  man's  brain  was  fighting  for  sanity.  Now 
had  come  the  awful  reaction.  His  purpose  had  been  accom- 
plished, the  strain  was  over,  and  there  was  nothing  left  him 


THE  RETURN  OF  ALEXANDER  HENDRIE 

but  the  knowledge  of  his  own  terrible  disaster.  He  felt  that 
any  ill-timed  word  of  his  might  upset  the  balance.  This 
man,  who  had  proved  victorious  in  a  thousand  battles  in 
the  arena  of  commerce,  was  now  torn  in  conflict  with  his 
own  soul.  He  must  fight  his  battle  alone.  He  must  fight 
it  to  the  end. 

"God!  If  you'd  help  rob  me  of  all  the  wealth  I  possess 
you  could  not  have  begun  to  hurt  me  as — as  you  have  hurt 
me  in  this.  All  that  I  have,  or  am,  is — in  that  woman's 
love.  All  that  makes  my  life  worth  while  is  in  her  smile. 
Do  you  understand?  No.  Or  you'd  never  have  come  to 
me  with  your  miserable  tale."  His  face  was  working. 
"You're  all  the  same.  You're  all  in  the  conspiracy.  Oh, 
I  could  crush  you,  as  well  as  the  others,  with  these  two  hands. 
I  could  squeeze  the  wretched  life  out  of  you,  and  it  would 
please  me.  Yes,  it  would  please  me." 

Angus  held  his  watchful  attitude. 

The  man  was  breathing  hard,  and  his  usually  cold  eyes 
were  burning.  He  shifted  his  position  spasmodically. 

Presently  a  deep  sigh  came  from  between  his  clenched 
teeth.  Again  he  moved,  but  this  time  it  was  to  cross  his 
legs.  Angus  saw  the  movement,  and,  all  unconsciously,  he 
sighed,  too.  He  understood  the  relaxing  of  tension  which 
permitted  such  a  movement.  Was  the  end  near?  Had  the 
battle  worn  itself  out?  Had  the  man  emerged  victorious? 

Suddenly  Hendrie  turned  to  the  cigar,  still  poised  between 
his  fingers.  He  smiled.  And  Angus  knew  that  victory  was 
within  sight.  A  match  was  again  struck,  and  this  time  the 
millionaire  lit  his  cigar.  The  next  moment  his  companion 
beheld  a  glimpse  of  the  suffering  heart  so  deeply  hidden  in 
that  broad  bosom. 

"I'm — I'm  sorry,  old  friend,"  Hendrie  said,  with  an  un- 
usual note  of  genuine  kindness  in  his  voice.  "I'm  sorry. 
Guess  I  said  a  whole  heap  of  rotten  stuff  to  you.  Maybe 
you'll  forget.  Maybe  you  understand  something  of  what 
I'm  feeling  about  now.  You  see — I — just  love  her,  and, 
well — I  just  love  her." 


230  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE    VEEDICT 

THE  machinery  at  the  command  of  Alexander  Hendrie 
had  been  set  in  motion.  Nor  was  its  power  in  doubt  for  a 
single  moment.  Wealth  may  not  be  able  to  bias  the  ruling 
of  a  court,  but  it  can  do  all  those  things  which  can  force 
conviction  upon  the  mind  of  the  most  upright  judge  on  the 
bench.  It's  subtle  working  in  the  hands  of  men  who  live 
by  corruption  is  more  powerful  than,  perhaps,  the  ordinary 
mind  would  believe.  No  innocence  is  sufficient  that  its  vic- 
tim need  not  fear  for  liberty — even  for  life  itself. 

Frank  Burton,  charged  in  Calford  as  Frank  Smith,  a 
name  which,  to  the  last,  he  claimed  for  his  own,  was  soon 
enough  to  learn  something  of  this  extraordinary,  intangible 
power.  To  his  horror  he  found  himself  utterly  powerless 
before  an  array  of  evidence  which  conveyed  a  cruelly  com- 
plete story  of  his  alleged  malef actions,  characterized  as 
house-breaking — with  violence.  Some  of  the  witnesses 
against  him  were  men  whom  he  had  never  seen  or  heard  of, 
and  strangely  enough,  Alexander  Hendrie  did  not  appear 
against  him.  The  charge  was  made  by  Angus  Moraine. 

For  his  defence  he  had  only  his  absurdly  bare  declaration 
of  innocence,  a  declaration  made  from  the  passionate  depths 
of  an  innocent  heart,  but  one  which,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
court,  amounted  to  nothing  more  than  the  prerogative  of 
the  vilest  criminal. 

What  use  to  fight?  His  counsel,  the  counsel  appointed 
by  the  court,  did  his  conscientious  best,  but  he  knew  he  was 
fighting  a  losing  battle.  There  was  no  hope  from  the  outset, 
and  he  knew  it.  However,  he  had  his  fee  to  earn,  and  he 
earned  it  to  the  complete  satisfaction  of  his  conscience. 

In  view  of  his  client's  declaration  of  absolute  innocence 
this  worthy  man  endeavored  to  drag  from  him  a  plausible 
explanation  of  his  presence  at  Deep  Willows,  with  the  money 
taken  from  the  open  safe  in  his  possession.  But  on  this 
point  Frank  remained  obstinately  silent.  He  had  no  ex- 


THE    VERDICT 

planation  to  offer.  His  mother's  honor  was  more  to  him 
than  his  liberty — more  to  him  than  his  life.  So  the  mockery 
of  justice  went  on  to  the  end. 

In  the  meantime  Alexander  Hendrie  was  no  nearer  the 
scene  of  persecution  than  Winnipeg,  but  the  six  hundred 
odd  miles  was  bridged  by  telephone  wires,  and  he  was  in 
constant  touch  with  those  whose  service  was  at  his  com- 
mand. 

The  completeness  with  which  the  last  details  of  his  plans 
were  executed  was  at  once  a  tribute  to  his  consummate 
manipulation,  and  the  merciless  quality  of  his  hatred.  The 
cruelty  he  displayed  must  have  been  indefensible  except 
for  that  one  touch  of  human — nay,  animal  nature,  which 
belongs  to  all  life.  He  honestly  believed  in  this  man's  guilty 
relations  with  his  own  wife,  and  his  blindly  furious  jealousy 
thus  inspired  he  saw  no  penalty,  no  vengeance  too  cruel  or 
too  lasting  to  deal  out  to  the  offender. 

Alexander  Hendrie  had  no  scruples  when  dealing  with  his 
enemies.  His  was  the  merciless  fighting  nature  of  the  brute. 
But  he  was  also  capable  of  prodigal  generosities,  lofty 
passions,  and  great  depths  of  human  gentleness. 

No  feeling  of  pity  stirred  him  as  he  sat  in  his  office  in 
Winnipeg,  with  the  telephone  close  to  his  hand,  on  the 
afternoon  of  his  victim's  trial. 

He  was  waiting  for  the  news  of  the  verdict  which  was  to 
reach  him  over  those  hundreds  of  miles  of  silent  wire.  He 
was  waiting  patiently,  but  absorbed  in  his  desire  that  word 
should  reach  him  at  the  earliest  moment.  His  desk  was 
littered  with  business  papers  which  required  his  attention, 
but  they  remained  untouched.  It  was  an  acknowledgment 
that  paramount  in  the  man's  mind  is  passionate  feeling  for 
the  woman  he  had  married. 

It  was  a  strange  metamorphosis  in  a  man  of  his  long- 
cultivated  purpose.  All  his  life  success  had  been  his  most 
passionate  desire.  Now  he  almost  regarded  his  millions 
with  contempt.  Nature  had  claimed  him  at  last,  and  the 
lateness  of  her  call  had  only  increased  the  force  and  peremp- 
toriness  of  her  demands. 

Even  now,  while  he  waited,  his  thoughts  were  in  that 
up-town  mansion  where  Monica  was  waiting  for  him.  Nor 
were  they  the  harsh  thoughts  of  the  wronged  husband  for 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  woman  in  whom  his  faith  had  been  shattered.  He  was 
thinking  of  her  as  the  wonderful  creature,  so  fair,  so  perfect 
in  form,  so  delightful  in  the  appeal  of  her  whole  personality, 
around  whom  shone  the  deepest,  most  glowing  fires  of  his 
hopes.  She  was  to  him  the  fairest  of  all  God's  creatures; 
she  was  to  him  the  most  desirable  thing  in  all  the  world. 

The  fierce  tempest  which  had  so  bitterly  raged  in  his 
soul  at  the  first  discovery  of  her  frailty  had  abated,  it  had 
almost  worn  itself  out.  Now  he  had  taken  the  wreckage 
and  deliberately  set  it  behind  him,  and  once  more  the  flame 
of  his  passion  had  leaped  up — fanned  by  the  breath  of  the 
strong  life  which  was  his. 

Another  might  have  cast  the  woman  out  of  his  life; 
another  of  lesser  caliber.  This  man  might  have  turned 
and  rent  her,  as  he  had  turned  and  rent  the  man  who  was 
her  secret  lover.  But  such  was  not  Alexander  Hendrie. 
His  passions  were  part  of  him,  uncontrolled  by  any  luke- 
warm considerations  of  right  and  wrong.  To  love,  with  him, 
was  to  hurl  aside  all  caution,  all  deliberation,  and  yield 
himself  up  to  it,  body  and  soul.  To  have  cast  Monica 
out  of  his  life  must  have  been  to  tear  the  heart  from  the 
depths  of  his  bosom. 

The  time  crept  on,  and  still  the  telephone  remained  silent. 
But  the  waiting  man's  patience  seemed  inexhaustible.  His 
was  the  patience  of  certainty.  So  he  smoked  on  in  his 
leisurely  fashion,  dreaming  his  dreams  in  the  delicate  spirals 
of  fragrant  smoke  which  rose  upon  the  still  air  of  the  room 
to  the  clouded  ceiling  above. 

He  had  no  thought  for  the  innocent  young  life  he  was 
crushing  with  the  power  of  his  wealth  so  many  miles  away. 
He  cared  not  one  jot  for  the  ethics  of  his  merciless  actions. 
His  thwarted  love  for  his  erring  wife  filled  all  his  dreams  to 
the  exclusion  of  every  other  consideration.  . 

A  secretary  entered  and  silently  left  some  papers  upon 
his  desk.  He  retired  voicelessly  to  wonder  what  fresh  man- 
ipulation in  the  wheat  world  his  employer  was  contemplating. 

A  junior  entered  with  several  telegrams.  They,  too,  were 
silently  deposited,  and  he  vanished  again  to  some  distant 
corners  of  the  offices. 

Still  Hendrie  dreamed  on,  and  still  the  telephone  had  no 
word  to  impart.  His  cigar  was  burning  low.  The  aroma 


THE    VERDICT  233 

of  its  leaf  was  less  delicate.  Perhaps  it  was  the  latter  that 
broke  in  on  his  dreaming,  perhaps  it  was  something  else. 
He  stirred  at  last,  and  dropped  the  lighted  stump  into  a 
cuspidor,  and  thrust  his  chair  back. 

At  that  moment  the  bur-r-r  of  the  telephone's  dummy 
bell  broke  the  silence.  Without  haste,  without  a  sign  of 
emotion  he  drew  his  chair  forward  again,  and  leisurely  placed 
the  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"Yes— Who's  that?— oh!— Calf ord."  Hendrie  waited  a 
moment,  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  drumming  idly  on 
his  desk.  Presently  he  went  on:  "Yes,  yes — you  are  Cal- 
ford.  Who  is  it  speaking? — Eh? — That  you,  Angus? 
Damn  these  long-distance  'phones,  they're  so  indistinct! — 
Yes.  This  is  Hendrie  speaking.  Well? — Oh.  Finished,  is 
it? — Yes.  And? — oh — splendid.  Five  years — Good — Five 
years  penitentiary.  Excellent.  Thanks.  Good-bye." 

He  replaced  the  receiver  and  quietly  began  to  deal  with 
the  accumulation  of  work  which  had  lain  so  long  untouched 
upon  his  desk. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


PART   III 

CHAPTER    I 

THE  MARCH   OF  TIME 

IN  the  rush  of  new  life  in  Winnipeg,  Monica  was  left 
with  little  enough  time  for  anything  but  those  duties  which, 
in  her  husband's  interests,  were  demanded  of  her.  A  fresh 
vista  of  life's  panorama  had  opened  out  before  her,  making 
it  necessary  to  obtain  a  definite  readjustment  of  focus. 

She  quickly  found  herself  tossed  about  amid  the  rapids 
of  the  social  stream,  and,  however  little  the  buffeting  of  its 
wayward  currents  appealed  to  her,  hers  was  a  nature  not 
likely  to  shrink  before  it.  It  was  her  duty,  as  the  wife  of  one 
of  the  richest  men  in  the  country,  to  make  herself  one  of  the 
pivots  about  which  revolved  a  narrow,  exclusive  social  circle, 
and  toward  that  end  she  strove  with  her  greatest  might. 

But  the  life  was  certainly  not  of  her  choosing.  For  her  its 
glamor  had  no  appeals.  She  regarded  it  as  a  splendid 
show,  built  upon  the  sands  of  insincerity,  hypocrisy,  self- 
indulgence,  vulgarity,  all  of  which  were  far  enough  removed 
from  her  true  nature. 

However,  she  was  not  without  her  compensation.  She 
felt  she  was  an  important  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  fortune  her 
husband  was  spinning,  and,  for  his  sake,  she  was  glad  to 
endure  the  slavery. 

So,  in  her  great  mansion,  in  the  most  exclusive  portion 
of  the  city,  she  dispensed  lavish  and  tasteful  hospitality ;  and, 
in  turn,  took  part  in  all  the  functions  that  went  to  make  up 
the  program  of  the  set  in  which  she  found  herself  some- 
thing more  than  an  ordinary  star.  Within  three  months 
her  popularity  was  achieved,  and  in  six  she  was  voted  the 
most  brilliant  hostess  in  the  city. 

She  spared  herself  not  at  all.  All  her  tact,  her  discretion, 
her  mentality  were  exerted  in  the  service  of  the  man  she 
loved,  who,  watching  her  uncomplaining  efforts,  saw  that 
they  were  good.  Whatever  her  feelings  and  longings  for 
the  peace  of  the  golden  plains  of  Deep  Willows,  her  reward 
lay  in  the  quiet  acknowledgment,  the  smiling  approval  and 


THE    MARCH    OF    TIME  235 

systematic  devotion  of  the  man  whose  slave  she  was  only 
too  willing  to  be. 

It  would  all  end  some  day,  she  knew.  Some  day,  her 
husband's  work  completed,  she  would  find  herself  at  his  side, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  supported  always 
by  his  strong  affection,  completing  their  little  journey 
through  life  in  the  proud  knowledge  that  the  work  they 
had  set  themselves  was  well  and  truly  done. 

Hendrie's  satisfaction  with  her  was  very  apparent. 
Whatever  his  secret  thoughts  and  feelings,  whatever  his 
bitterness  of  memory,  no  sign  of  these  was  permitted  to 
escape  him.  She  moved  through  his  life  an  idol.  She  was 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  religion  which  reduced  him  to 
the  verge  of  fanaticism. 

Thus  Monica  was  absorbed  during  her  first  six  months 
of  Winnipeg.  But  in  her  moments  of  respite  her  thoughts 
more  than  frequently  drifted  in  the  direction  of  young 
Frank,  and  the  girl  he  was  to  make  his  wife. 

At  first  she  recalled  with  satisfaction  the  fact  that  she 
had  been  able  to  help  him,  and  she  found  herself  building 
many  castles  for  his  occupation.  Then,  as  the  time  slipped 
by,  she  began  to  wonder  at  his  silence.  There  was  no  sense 
of  alarm.  She  just  wondered,  and  went  on  with  her  pictures 
of  his  future.  She  thought  of  the  new  home  she  had  helped 
him  select,  and  saw  him  in  its  midst,  preparing  it  for  the 
reception  of  the  young  wife  he  was  so  soon  to  take  to  his 
bosom. 

Frank  married!  It  seemed  so  strange.  The  thought 
carried  her  happily  back  to  the  picture  of  a  blue-eyed, 
crumpled-faced  baby  as  it  had  looked  up  from  its  cot  with 
that  meaningless  stare,  so  helpless,  yet  so  ravishing  to  the 
mother  instinct.  It  seemed  absurd  to  think  of  Frank  mar- 
ried. And  yet 

Why  had  he  not  written?     She  was  puzzled. 

At  first  her  puzzlement  was  merely  passing,  as  other  im- 
portant matters  drove  it  from  her  thoughts.  But,  as  the 
days  passed  without  any  word,  it  recurred  with  greater  and 
greater  frequency.  Gradually  a  subtle  worry  set  in,  a 
worry  both  undermining  and  harassing.  Then  she  seriously 
began  to  consider  the  puzzle  of  it,  and,  in  a  moment,  genuine 
alarm  took  hold  of  her. 


236  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

She  reviewed  the  night  of  her  husband's  sudden  return 
to  Deep  Willows.  She  remembered  how,  immediately  on 
leaving  Angus's  office,  she  had  gone  straight  to  her  library. 
It  was  empty.  The  safe  was  locked ;  all  was  in  order.  Even 
the  window  was  closed.  All  this  told  her  what  she  wanted 
to  know.  Frank  had  taken  his  departure  safely.  The 
final  touch  of  the  window  remaining  unfastened,  pointed  the 
fact  that  he  had  closed  it  after  him. 

Yes,  he  was  safely  away.  Of  that  there  was  no  doubt 
in  her  mind.  Then,  why  this  silence?  Could  an  accident 
have  occurred?  Could  he  be  ill?  It  did  not  seem  likely. 

In  either  case  he  would  have  let  her  know.  Could  he  be ? 

No,  she  thrust  the  thought  of  his  death  aside  as  too  horrible 
to  contemplate. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  money.  It  was  a  large  sum. 
Had  he  been  robbed?  It  was  a  possibility,  but  one  that  did 
not  carry  conviction.  It  was  not  likely,  she  told  herself. 
Knowing  him  as  she  did  it  seemed  impossible.  No  one  knew 
of  his  possession,  and  he  was  not  likely  to  proclaim  it.  He 
was  quite  cautious,  and,  besides,  he  knew  the  people  he  was 
likely  to  find  himself  among. 

At  length  she  wrote  to  him.  This  was  about  three  months 
after  her  arrival  in  Winnipeg.  She  wrote  him  at  the  farm 
where  he  had  worked,  feeling  that  the  letter  would  be  for- 
warded on  if  he  had  left  the  place. 

Days  passed;  two  weeks.  There  was  no  reply  to  her 
letter,  and  her  fears  increased.  A  month  later  she  wrote 
again,  this  time  addressing  the  letter  to  his  new  farm.  The 
result  was  the  same.  His  silence  remained  unbroken. 

Then  came  a  shock  which  reduced  her  to  a  condition  of 
panic.  Her  first  letter  was  returned  to  her  through  the 
mail,  and  the  envelope  bore  the  ominous  blue  pencil  message, 
"not  known."  A  few  days  later  her  second  letter  came  back 
with  similar  words. 

The  return  of  the  second  letter  had  a  curious  effect 
upon  Monica.  For  a  long  time  she  found  herself  unable  to 
think  clearly  upon  the  matter.  Her  panic  seemed  to  have 
paralyzed  her  capacity  for  clear  thought,  and  she  was  left 
helplessly  dreading. 

The  truth  was  she  had  no  one  to  whom  she  could  open 
her  heart.  No  one  to  whom  she  could  confide,  and  with 


THE    MARCH    OF    TIME  237 

whom  she  could  discuss  the  situation.  So  she  was  left  with 
an  awful  dread  weighing  her  down.  Something  had  happened 
to  the  boy,  something  dreadful.  And  she  dared  not,  even 
in  thought,  admit  the  nature  of  her  fears. 

Nor  was  her  trouble  without  its  outward,  physical  effect. 
Sleepless  nights  and  anxiety  rapidly  began  to  leave  their 
mark.  She  became  nervous  and  irritable.  Her  beautiful 
rounded  cheeks  lost  something  of  their  delicate  beauty. 
Her  eyes  grew  shadowed,  and  the  nervous  strain  left  blood- 
shot markings  in  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  eyes.  Her 
faithful  Margaret  was  quick  to  perceive  these  signs.  But 
in  her  ignorance  of  the  real  facts  she  read  them  as  due  to 
the  constant  drain  of  her  mistress's  social  duties  upon  a 
system  unused  to  such  a  life. 

"Madam  must  rest,"  she  assured  her  charge,  as  the  latter 
sat  before  her  mirror,  while  the  girl's  deft  fingers  prepared 
her  hair  for  Mrs.  Lionel  K.  Horsley's  ice  carnival  at  the 
great  skating  rink.  "Madam  will  be  a  ghost  of  herself  soon. 
She  will  be  so— so  ill." 

But  "madam"  had  no  reply  for  the  girl's  well-meant  warn- 
ing. She  sat  silently  studying  her  reflection  in  the  mirror 
for  many  minutes. 

The  result  of  that  study  was  a  sudden  determination  to 
do  something  by  which  she  might  hope  to  stay  these  inroads. 
Her  resolve  took  the  form  of  a  desire  for  action.  She  must 
set  her  doubts  at  rest.  She  must  find  out  definitely  the 
actual  reason  of  her  boy's  silence. 

So  once  more  she  set  herself  to  study  the  dreary  list  of 
possibilities.  It  was  a  hopeless,  blind  sort  of  groping,  and 
led  nowhither.  Nor  was  it  until  some  days  had  passed 
that  her  inspiration  really  came.  It  came  in  the  middle 
of  a  long,  sleepless  night,  and  she  only  marveled  that  she 
had  not  thought  of  it  before.  If  there  was  one  person  in 
the  world  likely  to  know  of  Frank's  whereabouts  it  wras 
Phyllis  Ray  sun.  Why  had  she  not  thought  of  it  before? 

Forthwith  she  left  her  bed  and  wrote  a  letter.  Nor  did 
the  possible  consequences  of  what  she  was  doing  occur  to  her 
until  she  had  sealed  the  envelope.  Then  realization  came 
sharply  enough.  She  remembered  Phyllis's  unusual  keen- 
ness. Who  was  she,  Monica,  to  require  information  about 
Frank?  What  relationship  was  there  between  them? 


338  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  girl  was  aware  of  Frank's  illegitimacy.  Well?  Yes, 
she  would  guess  the  secret  she,  Monica,  had  been  at  such 
pains  to  keep. 

On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  she  tore  the  letter  up. 
But,  almost  immediately,  she  wrote  another.  The  second 
was  shorter.  It  was  more  formal,  too,  and  she  left  out  of  it 
all  excuse  for  requiring  the  information.  Phyllis  must  guess, 
if  she  chose.  If  she  guessed,  when  she  answered,  she, 
Monica,  would  tell  her  the  truth  of  her  relationship  to  Frank, 
or,  at  least,  the  story  she  had  told  Frank  himself.  It  would 
be  the  best  course  to  take — the  only  course  she  could  see. 

With  the  letter  written  she  enjoyed  the  first  real  night's 
sleep  she  had  had  for  many  days.  She  felt  better.  She 
felt  she  was  on  the  right  track,  and  now,  at  last,  was  actively 
moving  to  clear  up  the  mystery  which  had  robbed  her  of  so 
much  peace  of  mind. 

She  mailed  the  letter  herself  next  morning,  and  then 
prepared  to  await  the  result  with  what  patience  she  could. 

In  due  course  her  answer  arrived.  It  came  in  the  shape 
of  a  cheap  envelope  bulging  to  its  capacity.  For  a  moment 
Monica's  excitement  was  almost  painful.  Perhaps  it  con- 
tained the  long-awaited  letter  from  Frank  himself.  Perhaps, 
through  some  mischance,  he  had  been  away,  and  unable  to 
write  her  before.  Perhaps  all  her  fears  had  been  unnecessary. 

She  tore  off  the  outer  covering.  But  the  first  paragraph 
written  in  a  girlish  hand,  dashed  every  hope,  and  plunged 
her  to  the  depths  of  despair. 

Monica  read  the  letter  to  the  end — the  bitter,  bitter  end — 
and  she  read  the  simple  story  of  a  heartbroken  girl,  who, 
like  herself,  had  been  waiting,  waiting  for  word  from  the 
man  who  was  her  whole  world.  She  had  no  news  of  him 
whatsoever.  She  knew  nothing  of  his  whereabouts.  She 
could  find  no  trace  of  him.  He  had  vanished.  He  had  gone 
out  of  her  life  without  a  word.  From  the  moment  he  had 
left  Gleber  to  visit  his  mother,  nothing  had  been  seen  of  him 
by  any  one  in  the  vicinity  of  the  farm  upon  which  he  had 
been  working. 

Not  one  doubt  of  the  man  himself  did  the  girl  express. 
She  was  convinced  that  some  terrible  accident  had  befallen. 
Death  alone,  she  declared,  would  have  kept  him  from  her, 
and  in  this  belief  her  grief  left  her  overwhelmed.  Monica's 


THE    MARCH    OF    TIME  239 

tears  fell  fast  as  she  read  the  letter.  They  were  tears  for 
the  child  who  had  written  it,  tears  for  herself,  tears  for  the 
unhappy  boy  whom  she  looked  upon  and  loved  as  a  son. 

But  the  appeal  of  the  girl's  story  had  another  effect  upon 
her.  It  stiffened  her  courage,  and,  for  some  strang  reason, 
left  her  utterly  unconvinced  of  the  rightness  of  the  surmise 
the  letter  contained.  Frank  was  not  dead,  she  told  herself, 
and  the  denial  came  from  her  heart  rather  than  her  head. 

From  that  moment  a  definite  change  became  very  marked 
in  Monica.  All  her  old  keenness  and  aptitude  for  business 
returned  to  her  aid.  No  stone  should  be  left  unturned  to 
discover  the  boy,  whatever  it  cost  her.  Grown  to  manhood 
as  he  was,  he  was  still  her  charge,  bound  to  her  by  the  ties 
of  her  duty  to  the  dead,  bound  to  her  by  the  tie  of  a  wonder- 
ful maternal  love.  She  steeled  herself  to  face  every  pos- 
sibility. She  flinched  at  rio  consequence  to  herself.  If  she 
searched  the  world  to  its  ends,  Frank  should  be  found. 

Her  plans  were  quickly  made.  In  her  emergency  they 
required  less  thought  than  had  been  necessary  in  the  midst 
of  her  doubts.  With  Frank  definitely  lost,  the  matter 
resolved  itself  into  a  question  of  dollars.  Dollars?  She 
had  them.  She  had  them  in  unlimited  quantities,  and  they 
should  be  poured  out  like  water. 

She  promptly  engaged  the  services  of  the  best  detectives 
in  the  country,  and  set  them  to  work.  In  their  supreme 
confidence  they  promised  her  that  if  the  man  was  above 
ground  they  would  find  him.  If  he  were  not,  then  they 
would  at  least  point  the  spot  at  which  he  was  buried. 

Monica  was  satisfied,  and  the  long  weeks  of  waiting  for 
news  began.  She  wrote  a  warm,  womanly  letter  of  great 
kindness  to  Phyllis,  and  told  her  what  she  was  doing.  She 
also  told  her  the  story  of  Frank's  birth  as  she  had  told  it 
to  the  boy  himself.  She  promised  her,  among  many  other 
encouragements,  that  she  would  wire  her  news  as  soon  as  it 
reached  her. 

For  herself  she  was  quite  desperate,  and  weighed  none  of 
the  possible  consequences,  should  word  of  what  she  was  doing 
reach  her  husband.  She  was  content  to  await  such  conse- 
quences and  deal  with  them  as  they  presented  themselves. 
It  was  the  mother-love  in  her  at  war  with  her  love  for  her 
husband,  and,  somehow,  the  former,  for  the  time,  at  least, 


240  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

seemed  to  possess  the  stronger  hold  upon  her.  At  that 
moment,  no  sacrifice  was  too  great  for  her  to  make. 

But,  for  all  the  confidence  expressed  by  the  men  she  had 
employed,  weeks  grew  into  months,  and  a  year  passed  since 
Frank's  disappearance,  and  she  was  still  waiting  for  news 
of  him.  Her  patience  was  sorely  taxed,  and  a  great  grief 
and  melancholy  settled  down  upon  her.  Her  agents  still 
remained  optimistic,  and  with  difficulty  persuaded  her  from 
employing  additional  aid. 

The  ice  having  been  broken,  she  kept  in  constant  com- 
munication with  Phyllis,  and  the  intercourse  helped  her  to 
endure  the  dreary  waiting,  as  it  helped  the  lonely  girl  so 
many  miles  away.  It  was  a  solace,  however  meager,  to 
both,  and  it  served  to  save  them  from  the  crushing  effects 
of  a  burden  which  threatened  to  overwhelm  them  both. 

Once,  in  a  fit  of  depression,  Monica  made  up  her  mind  to 
abandon  Winnipeg  and  return  to  Deep  Willows.  %  She  had 
no  very  definite  reason  for  the  change.  It  might  have  been 
that  she  wanted  to  return  to  the  place  where  she  had  last 
seen  her  boy.  It  may  have  been  that  she  wanted  to  be 
within  reach  of  Phyllis,  the  only  person  to  whom  she  could 
open  her  troubled  heart.  Then,  too,  perhaps  her  presence 
would  help  the  girl,  whom,  in  her  own  trouble,  Monica  had 
come  to  look  upon  with  something  more  than  friendliness. 

She  told  her  husband  of  her  purpose  one  night  on  their  way 
to  dinner  at  the  house  of  Joseph  P.  Lachlan,  a  great  railroad 
magnate. 

Hendrie  expressed  no  surprise,  but  appeared  to  display 
the  keenest  sympathy. 

"You've  done  great  work,  Mon,"  he  said  cordially.  "I 
don't  know  how  I  should  have  got  through  without  your 
help  on  the  social  side.  You're  a  bully  partner.  You've 
never  grumbled.  And  yet  you  must  be  worn  out.  It's  been 
worrying  me  lately.  I've  seen  how  all  this  is  telling  on  you. 
Ye — s.  You  certainly  must  have  a  holiday.  I  hope  to 
be  finished  soon.  Then  I  shall  be  able  to  join  you.  But 
there  are  one  or  two  matters  I  can't  leave  yet.  I  hope  to 
bring  off  a  big  coup  the  night  of  our  big  reception,  a  month 
hence.  You  see,  Cyrus  Burd,  the  New  York  banker,  must 
be  brought  into  the  trust.  The  whole  thing  is  a  question 
of  overwhelming  capital  to  carry  on  the  fight  against  the 


THE    MARCH    OF    TIME 

market  when  we  declare  ourselves.  And  Burd  is  the  man — 
the  last  man  we  want.  I  dare  say  I  can  worry  that  reception 
through  without  you.  I  shall  have  to.  Anyway  your  health 
is  the  first  consideration  with  me,  and  Deep  Willows  is  just 
the  place  for  you  to  recuperate  in." 

Instantly  Monica's  denial  leaped.  Her  health  was  nothing 
to  his  affairs,  she  said.  A  month  more  or  less  would  make 
no  difference  to  her.  There  must  be  no  chance  of  anything 
going  wrong  through  her  defection.  She  would  not  leave 
Winnipeg  till  after  that  reception. 

.  Then  Hendrie  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go.  But  her  mind, 
she  declared,  was  definitely  made  up,  and  she  was  quite 
immovable.  So  Hendrie,  with  an  air  of  reluctance,  was 
finally  forced  to  acquiesce. 

"If  you  insist,  Mon,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  he  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "At  least  when  it  is  over,  we'll  take  a  long  rest. 
We'll  visit  Europe  and  spend  a  lazy  month  or  so." 

Monica  was  clay  in  his  hands.  The  last  place  he  wanted 
her  to  visit  was  Deep  Willows — yet. 

She  had  reason  to  be  glad  of  her  decision  two  weeks  later. 
It  was  nearly  noon  one  morning  when  her  private  telephone 
at  the  side  of  her  bed  rang.  She  was  sipping  her  morning 
coffee.  The  rolls  on  her  plate  were  as  yet  untouched. 
Margaret  was  occupied  in  preparing  for  her  mistress's  toilet. 
The  girl  promptly  left  her  work  and  took  up  the  receiver, 
while  Monica  waited  to  hear  who  it  was  ringing  her  up. 

"Who  is  it?  the  girl  inquired.  "I  can't  hear. 
Red—" 

Monica  spoke  sharply. 

"Give  me  the  thing,"  she  said.  "You  never  could  hear 
over  a  'phone." 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  left  the  room,  as  was  her  rule  when 
Monica  used  the  telephone. 

It  was  the  Redtown  Inquiry  Agency,  and  Monica's  heart 
leaped  as  she  listened.  Their  representative  wanted  to  see 
ber  urgently.  Would  she  call  upon  him  before  two  o'clock? 
It  was  preferable  she  should  go  to  him.  Would  she  kindly  do 
so  ?  He  could  not  trust  a  message  of  importance  to  the  wire. 

It  was  just  one  o'clock  when  Monica  was  ushered  into  the 
private  office  of  Mr.  Verdant,  the  representative  of  the  Red 

town  Agency. 
17 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Mr.  Verdant  greeted  her  with  the  cordiality  he  always 
displayed  toward  a  rich  client.  After  placing  her  in  a 
chair,  where  the  light  from  the  window  shone  full  upon  her 
face,  he  moved  noiselessly  over  to  the  door,  and,  with  some 
display,  ascertained  that  it  was  tightly  shut.  Then,  as 
noiselessly,  he  returned  to  his  desk,  dropped  into  his  swing 
chair,  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  gazed  squarely  into  his 
visitor's  face. 

Having  satisfactorily  staged  himself,  and  conveyed  to  the 
anxious  woman  that  he  was  reading  her  like  an  open  book, 
he  drew  a  memorandum  pad  toward  him  and  spoke  without 
looking  up. 

"We  have  not  found  your — the  person  you  are  interested 
in,  Mrs.  Hendrie,"  he  said,  with  studied  effect. 

"You  have  not  found  him?"  Monica's  heart  sank.  Then 
she  went  on  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "Then — then  why  have 
you  sent  for  me?  You  said  it  was  urgent." 

The  man  looked  up.  It  was  a  keen  face  he  turned  toward 
his  client.  He  was  a  clever  detective,  but  he  was  also  a 
shrewd  business  man. 

"Just  so,  madam,"  he  said.  It  is  urgent.  I  have 
brought  you  here  to  tell  you  that  my  people  have  decided 
to  abandon  the  case.'* 

Monica  stared. 

"But— but  I  don't  understand." 

"Precisely,  madam,  and  I  am  here  to  explain." 

"Please  explain — and  quickly.     I  have  no  time  to  waste." 

Monica  was  angry.     She  was  grievously  disappointed,  too.  • 
All  the  way  down  Main  Street  she  had  buoyed  herself  with 
the  belief  that  her  boy  had  at  last  been  found. 

"I'm  sorry,  mam,"  Mr.  Verdant  went  on,  "but  we're  busi- 
ness men  as  well  as  inquiry  agents.  Maybe  we're  busi- 
ness men  first.  You'll  naturally  understand  that  our  in- 
quiries frequently  lead  us  into  strange  places,  also  they 
frequently  land  us  up  against  people  whom,  as  business  men, 
we  cannot  afford  to — vulgarly  speaking — run  up  against. 
This  is  our  position  now  with  regard  to  your — er — in- 
quiries." 

"You  mean — you  are  afraid  to  go  on  with  my  case?" 
Monica  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  her  annoyance,  even 
contempt. 


THE    MARCH    OF    TIME 

"You  can  put  it  that  way  if  you  choose,"  Mr.  Verdant 
went  on  imperturbably.  "The  point  is  that  as  inquiry 
agents  I  regret  to  say  my  chiefs  have  decided  to  abandon 
the  case,  and,  in  my  capacity  as  their  representative,  it  is 
my  duty  to  notify  you  personally." 

"But  this  is  outrageous,"  cried  Monica,  suddenly  giving 
full  vent  to  angry  disappointment.  "I  pay  you.  Whatever 
you  ask  I  am  willing  to  pay.  And  you  coolly,  without  any 
explanation,  refuse  to  continue  the  case.  It — is  a  scan- 
dalous outrage!" 

Her  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes  told  the  detective 
more  plainly  than  her  words  the  state  of  mind  his  ultimatum 
had  thrown  her  into.  He  assumed  at  once  a  more  con- 
ciliatory tone. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "you  are  just  a  little  hard  upon  us. 
There  are  some  things  far  better  left  alone,  and,  in  this  case, 
it  is  'explanation.'  The  fact  that  this  is  so  should  tell  you 
that  we  have  been  by  no  means  idle.  We  have  simply  gone 
as  far  as  we  dare  in  our  investigations." 

But  Monica  was  not  so  easily  appeased. 

"If  you  have  done  the  work  you  say;  if  you  have  made 
discoveries  which  you  refuse  to  disclose  to  me,  after  accepting 
my  money  for  your  work,  then  you  are  committing  a  fraud 
which  the  law  will  not  tolerate." 

Mr.  Verdant  listened  quite  unimpressed. 

"One  moment,  madam.  I  beg  of  you  to  keep  calm.  I 
have  done  my  duty  as  an  official  of  this  agency.  Now  I  am 
going  to  do  my  duty  by  you,  as  the  detective' in  charge  of 
your  case.  You  desire  to  know  the  whereabouts  of  Mr. 
Frank  Burton.  I  can  tell  you  how  to  find  his  whereabouts — 
in  half  an  hour." 

"But  you  said  you  had  not  found  him!" 

Monica  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  the  man  were  not  a 
lunatic  as  well  as  a  fraud. 

"I  have  not  found  him." 

"Then — gracious,  man,  speak  out.    How  can  I  find  him?" 

"Ask  your  husband.  Ask  Mr.  Alexander  Hendrie  where 
he  is." 

Mr.  Verdant  had  risen  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke,  and  now 
stood  holding  the  door  open  for  his  visitor  to  pass  out. 


244      THE  WAY  OF  THE  STRONG 


CHAPTER  H 

WHEN  VOWS  MUST  YIELD 

"AsK  your  husband.  Ask  Mr.  Alexander  Hendrie  where 
he  is." 

The  words  beat  into  Monica's  brain.  They  hammered 
upon  her  ear-drums.  They  rose  before  her  eyes,  mocking 
her. 

She  was  back  in  her  own  home.  She  had  gone  straight 
to  her  bedroom  and  locked  herself  in.  She  was  due  at  a 
luncheon  party,  and,  on  her  return,  Margaret  had  hurried  to 
wait  upon  her.  But  the  girl  was  promptly  dismissed,  and 
the  luncheon  forgotten.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  importance 
now.  Monica  would  go  nowhere;  she  would  receive  no  one. 
She  was  ill,  she  said,  and  refused  to  be  disturbed. 

So  Margaret  was  left  wondering  and  frightened. 

Monica  paced  her  room  for  hours.  She  was  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  think  connectedly.  She  was  trying  desperately 
to  fathom  the  meaning  of  the  man  Verdant's  challenge.  It 
was  useless.  All  continuity  of  thought  was  gone.  Her 
ideas,  her  thoughts  just  tumbled  pell-mell  through  her  har- 
assed brain,  eluded  her  grasp,  and  vanished  in  the  darkness 
whence  they  had  leaped. 

"Ask  your  husband.  Ask  Mr.  Alexander  Hendrie  where 
he  is." 

"It  was  maddening;  and  fever  coursed  through  her  veins. 
Her  head  grew  hot  with  her  effort.  It  ached,  as  did 
her  eyes.  Things  about  her  began  to  seem  unreal.  Even 
the  familiar  objects  in  the  room  seemed  to  belong  to  some 
long-past,  almost  forgotten  period  in  her  life.  She  pulled 
herself  together,  and  even  began  to  question  herself.  Where 
was  she?  Ah,  yes,  this  was  her  husband's  house 

"Ask  your  husband." 

For  a  moment  the  fever  left  her  cold.  Then  it  was  on  her 
again.  She  must  ask  her  husband! 

A  hundred  times  the  words  came  back,  but  she  could 
proceed  no  further.  Instinctively  she  understood  something 
of  the  ugliness  lying  beyond  them. 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD 

The  distraught  woman  endured  this  torture  for  hours.  It 
seemed  ages;  and  at  times  she  believed  she  was  struggling 
to  keep  her  reason. 

If  her  husband  knew  of  Frank's  whereabouts,  then — but 
she  dared  go  no  further.  Once  she  paused  in  her  restless 
pacing  and  stood  before  the  mirror  on  her  dressing-table. 
She  stared  at  it  as  though  reading  the  man's  words  written 
there.  Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  her  own  -reflection, 
which  seemed  to  be  mocking  her.  She  fled  precipitately  and 
flung  herself  into  a  chair,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 

But  such  a  state  of  mind  could  not  endure  and  sanity 
remain.  It  was  the  result  of  shock,  and  the  worst  of  shocks 
must  give  way  before  the  recuperative  powers  of  healthy 
nature.  So  it  was  now. 

The  late  afternoon  sun  had  just  fallen  athwart  the  great 
bay  window,  when  the  troubled  woman,  with  a  sigh  as  of 
utter  exhaustion,  flung  herself  upon  her  bed  in  a  flood  of 
hysterical  tears.  For  a  while  the  storm  remained  unabating. 
It  almost  seemed  that  the  flood-gates  of  a  broken  heart  had 
been  opened;  as  though  life  had  no  longer  any  joy  remain- 
ing; as  though  all  the  most  treasured  possessions  of  her 
woman's  heart  had  been  ruthlessly  torn  from  her  bosom, 
so  hopeless,  so  dreadful  were  her  tears. 

But  it  was  the  saving  reaction.  Within  half  an  hour  the 
storm  had  lessened.  Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  it 
ceased  altogether. 

Monica  sat  up. 

For  one  painful  moment  she  gazed  stupidly  about  her. 
Then  one  by  one  the  details  of  her  room  grew  upon  her,  and, 
slowly,  a  subtle  change  crept  into  her  eyes.  For  a  moment 
they  hardened,  as  though  she  were  spurring  herself  to  some 
painful  resolve.  Then,  at  last,  they  softened  again  to  their 
natural  expression.  She  left  her  bed,  and  passed  through 
the  doorway  which  led  into  her  private  bathroom. 

Presently  she  emerged.  A  cold  douche  had  done  its  work. 
She  was  quite  calm  now,  and  all  her  movements  became 
deliberate.  She  walked  up  to  her  mirror,  and  gazed  at  the 
reflection  of  her  swollen  eyes.  Then,  with  a  weary  sigh,  she 
finally  turned  away  and  pushed  the  electric  bell  at  her 
bedside. 

Margaret  obeyed  the  summons  with  suspicious  alacrity. 


246  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Truth  to  tell  the  devoted  girl  had  been  near  by,  waiting 
for  the  summons.  Her  mistress's  unusual  attitude  had 
seriously  troubled  her.  Now  she  came,  hoping  but  anxious, 
and,  after  one  glance  at  Monica's  swollen  eyes  she  gave  vent 
to  her  distress. 

"Oh,  but,  madam "  she  cried. 

She  was  silenced  with  a  look. 

"I'll  begin  to  dress — now,"  Monica  said  coldly. 

But  the  girl's  anxiety  was  too  sincere. 

"But,  madam,  it  is  only  half-past  five!  Dinner — dinner 
is  at  eight." 

Monica  turned  away  coldly,  and  seated  herself  upon  the 
ottoman,  which  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"I  will  dress  now,"  she  said  finally. 

Margaret  understood  her  charge.  It  was  useless  to  protest 
when  Monica's  mind  was  made  up.  So  she  set  about  her 
work  at  once. 

Monica  watched  her  as  she  threw  open  the  wardrobes. 
Her  eyes  followed  her  as  she  vanished  to  prepare  the  bath. 
But  it  was  not  with  any  interest.  The  girl's  movements 
simply  conveyed  a  sense  of  activity  to  her.  That  was  all. 
But  it  helped  her.  It  helped  her,  in  the  midst  of  her  teeming 
thought,  as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 

She  endured  the  process  of  her  toilet  like  one  in  a  dream. 
Nor  was  it  until  it  came  to  the  necessary  selection  of  a 
gown  that  she  displayed  any  real  interest.  Then  she  roused 
herself  and  startled  Margaret  with  her  peevish  indecision. 
Nothing  seemed  to  please  her.  Several  new  gowns,  just 
home  from  the  extravagant  costumer,  who  poured  "crea- 
tions" upon  her,  were  flung  ruthlessly  aside  before  the  girl's 
dismayed  eyes.  She  would  have  none  of  them,  and  Margaret 
was  at  her  wit's  end. 

There  were  only  a  few  simple  black  gowns  left,  and 
Margaret  hated  black.  But  what  was  she  to  do?  She 
produced  them,  being  careful,  at  the  same  time,  to  display 
her  own  disapproval.  Promptly  selection  was  made. 
Monica  knew  the  value  of  soft  black  chiffon  against  her 
beautiful  fair  hair  and  fairer  'skin.  No  one  knew  it 
better. 

Another  uncomfortable  half  hour  was  spent  while  the 
girl  dressed  her  mistress's  hair.  Never  had  Monica  been  so 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  247 

difficult  to  please.  But  even  this  was  finally  satisfactorily 
achieved,  and  Margaret  sighed  her  relief. 

However,  her  surprises  were  not  yet  done  with.  There 
was  still  another  forthcoming.  Monica  surveyed  herself  in 
the  mirror.  She  gazed  at  herself  from  every  point  of  view. 
She  beheld  a  perfectly  molded  figure,  unusually  tall,  with 
the  delicious  tint  of  flesh  like  alabaster  glowing  warmly 
through  the  gauzy  folds  of  the  simple  black  chiffon  of  which 
her  gown  was  composed.  She  saw  a  face  that  was  slightly 
pale,  but  of  exquisite,  mature  beauty.  She  saw  eyes  of  a 
deep  blue,  full  of  warmth,  full  of  that  precious  suggestion  of 
passionate  possibilities  which  no  man  can  witness  unmoved. 
And  even  in  those  moments  of  trouble  she  knew  that  she  had 
done  well  in  her  choice  of  gowns.  She  knew  that  she  was 
very  beautiful. 

She  turned  at  last  to  the  waiting  girl,  who  was  gazing  at 
her  in  open  admiration. 

"Go  and  find  out  if  Mr.  Hendrie  has  come  in  yet.  If  he 
hasn't,  leave  word  I  am  to  be  told  the  moment  he  arrives. 
Also,  let  him  be  told  that  I  wish  to  see  him  in  the  library 
before  he  goes  to  dress." 

The  girl  moved  toward  the  door. 

"One  moment."  Monica  spoke  over  her  shoulder.  "Put 
the  rouge  out  for  me,  and — an  eye  pencil." 

This  final  order  was  too  much  for  the  girl's  sense  of  the 
beautiful. 

"But,  madam,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  madam  is  too  beautiful 
for " 

"Do  as  I  tell  you!" 

The  order  came  sharply,  almost  harshly,  and  Margaret 
hastened  to  obey.  For  once  Monica  was  stirred  out  of  her 
customary  kindliness.  Her  nerves  were  on  edge.  She  had 
yet  to  face  an  ordeal,  which,  with  each  passing  moment, 
was  slowly  sapping  her  courage.  She  knew  she  had  none 
to  spare,  and  dreaded  lest  her  strength  should  fail  her  at  the 
last. 

Monica  was  standing  in  the  archway  beyond  which  two 
great  French  windows  looked  out  over  the  street.  One  beau- 
tiful, rounded  arm  was  upraised,  and  its  be  jeweled  hand  was 
nervously  clutching  the  edge  of  the  heavy  crimson  curtain. 


248  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

It  was  no  pose.   She  was  clinging  to  the  curtain  for  support. 

It  was  still  daylight.  The  setting  sun  still  lit  the  street 
outside.  The  room  was  lined  from  its  polished  floor  to  the 
ceiling  with  dark  mahogany  bookcases,  which,  with  the  crim- 
son hangings,  and  the  deep-toned  Turkey  carpet,  helped  to 
soften  the  light  to  a  suggestion  of  evening. 

The  sound  of  a  step  in  the  hall  beyond  startled  her.  She 
clutched  the  curtain  still  more  tightly.  She  knew  that  firm 
tread.  The  handle  of  the  door  turned.  Instantly  she  yielded 
her  hold  upon  the  curtain.  Her  husband  must  witness  no 
sign  of  her  fear.  The  next  moment  a  deep,  familiar  voice 
greeted  her. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  kept  you  waiting,  Mon.     I " 

Hendrie  broke  off  in  astonishment.  Just  for  a  moment 
his  eyes  surveyed  the  wonderful  picture  she  made.  And, 
in  that  moment,  Monica  realized  that  her  efforts  had  not 
been  in  vain.  His  eyes  were  drinking  in  her  beauty,  and  she 
understood  that  never,  in  their  brief  married  life,  had  she 
appealed  to  him  more. 

"Why,  Mon,"  he  cried.  Then  in  a  sudden  burst  of  ad- 
miration. "You — you  look  just  splendid."  And  after  a 
pause.  "Splendid!" 

Monica  smiled  up  at  him. 

"You  haven't  kept  me  waiting.  I — I  was  anxious  to  see 
you  at  once,  so  I — I  dressed  early." 

Hendrie  had  drawn  nearer,  as  though  about  to  embrace 
her.  But  her  halting  fashion  of  explanation  checked  him. 
All  unconsciously  he  leaned  against  the  edge  of  a  table  in- 
stead. It  was  as  though  something  had  warned  him  to — 
wait. 

"I'm  glad  I  didn't  keep  you  waiting,"  he  said,  and  some- 
thing of  the  warmth  had  gone  out  of  his  tone.  "Something 
— important  ?" 

The  woman  was  seized  with  a  man  longing  to  flee  from  the 
room.  The  ordeal  she  was  about  to  go  through  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

"Yes — I'm  afraid  it  is,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice, 
while  she  turned  away  toward  the  window. 

"Afraid?" 

Monica  turned  again  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  A 
sudden  weakness  left  her  knees  shaking. 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  249 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  stammered  on.  "I — I — hardly  know 
where — to — begin. " 

Hendrie  left  the  table  and  drew  a  step  nearer. 

"You're  in  some  trouble,  my  Mon,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  can 
see  it  in  your  face.  Tell  me,  dear." 

His  words  had  their  effect.  Monica's  fears  lessened,  and 
something  of  her  courage  returned.  Suddenly  she  threw  up 
her  head. 

"No,  no !  You  tell  me,  Alec !"  she  cried.  "Tell  me  truly, 
as  though  you  were  answering  your  own  soul,  is  there — is 
there  a  condition,  a  moment,  a  situation  in  life  when  it  be- 
comes wrong  to  keep  a  solemn  vow  given — to  the  dead?  I 
hold  that  a  vow  to  the  dead  is  the  most  sacred  thing  in — life. 
Am  I  right — or  wrong?" 

The  man's  gray  eyes  expressed  neither  surprise  nor  curi- 
osity. They  were  calmly  considering,  and  in  their  calm  they 
were  painfully  cold. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  wrong,"  he  said  simply.  "The  most  sacred  thing 
in  life  is — Truth.  When  Truth  demands,  no  vow  to  dead  or 
living  can  bind." 

Monica  sighed. 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Sure.    Quite  sure." 

The  man  was  deliberate.  As  no  answer  was  forthcoming, 
he  went  on — 

"Come,  Mon,  tell  me.  Guess  there's  something  behind  all 
this.  Well — I  am  here  to  listen." 

The  woman  stirred.  She  clenched  her  hands.  Then  her 
answer  came. 

"And  I  am  here  to  tell  you,"  she  cried,  with  a  sharp  intake 
of  breath.  "I  have  lost  something^  I  have  lost  something 
which  is  almost  as  precious  to  me  as — as  your  love.  I  have 
been  told  that  you  can  tell  me  where  to  find — him." 

"Him?"    The  word  rang  through  the  quiet  room. 

It  was  the  man's  only  comment,  and  a  dreadful  inflection 
was  laid  upon  the  word. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  acts  are  performed,  when 
words  are  spoken  without  thought,  even  without  actual  im- 
pulse of  our  own.  They  are,  perhaps,  moments  when  Fate 
steps  in  to  guide  us  into  the  path  she  would  have  us  tread. 


250  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Perhaps  it  was  such  a  moment  in  Monica's  life,  in  Hendrie's. 

Certainly  the  woman  had  spoken  without  thought.  She 
had  no  understanding  of  what  her  words  could  possibly  mean 
to  her  husband.  And  Hendrie,  surely  he  was  unaware  that 
murder  looked  out  of  his  furious  gray  eyes  at  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  mention  of  the  man  for  whose  downfall 
he  had  perjured  his  own  soul. 

"Yes — him,  him!"  cried  Monica,  becoming  hysterical. 
"My — my  dead  sister's  child." 

Hendrie  recovered  himself  at  once.  He  smoothed  back  his 
hair  like  a  man  at  a  loss. 

"I — don't  think  I  quite — get  it,"  he  said  slowly.  Then  his 
bushy  brows  lifted  questioningly.  "Your  sister's  child?  I 
didn't  know  you  had  a  sister.  You  never  told  me.  Say — 
how  should  I  know  where  this  child  is  ?" 

He  was  puzzled.    Yet  he  was  not  without  some  doubts. 

Monica  swallowed  with  difficulty.  Her  throat  and  tongue 
were  parched. 

"No,"  she  said,  struggling  for  calmness.  "I  never  told  you 
because — because  I  had  vowed  to  keep  the  secret.  Questions 
would  have  followed  the  telling,  which  I  could  not  have  an- 
swered. I  was  bound — bound,  and  I  could  not  break  my 
promise." 

"You  best  tell  me  all  there  is  to  tell,"  the  man  said  coldly. 
"This  secrecy,  this  promise.  I  don't  understand — any  of  it." 

Never  had  his  wife's  beauty  appealed  to  Hendrie  more 
than  it  did  at  that  moment.  A  great  depth  of  passionate 
feeling  was  stirring  within  him,  but  he  permitted  it  no  dis- 
play. He  was  growing  apprehensive,  troubled.  His  doubt, 
too,  was  increasing. 

Monica  suddenly  thrust  out  her  hands  in  appeal. 

"Oh,  Alec,  it  is  so  hard,  even  now,  to — to  break  my  faith 
with  the  dead.  And  yet  I  know  you  are  right.  It — it  is 
more  than  time  for  the  truth.  I  think — yes,  I  believe  if  poor 
Elsie  knew  all,  she  would  forgive  me." 

"Elsie?"    The  man's  voice  was  sharply  questioning. 

"Yes,  Elsie — my  poor,  dead  sister." 

"Go  on." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  must  go  on."  Monica  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  can't  understand.  I  don't  seem  to Oh,  tell  me  where 

he  is.  My  Frank,  my  poor  Frank,  Elsie's  boy.  The  boy  I 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  261 

have  brought  up  to  manhood,  the  boy  I  have  cared  for  all 
these  years,  the  boy  I  have  struggled  and  fought  for.  He — 
he  is — lost.  He  has  been  spirited  away  as  though  he  had 
never  existed.  And — I  am  told  by  the  detectives  to  ask  you 
where  he  is." 

Hendrie's  eyes  were  upon  the  carpet.  He  was  no  longer 
looking  into  the  troubled  face  before  him. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  sharply;  "when  did  you  see  him  last?" 

Monica  no  longer  hesitated.  Her  husband's  manner  had 
become  suddenly  compelling. 

"It  was  the  last  night  I  spent  at  Deep  Willows,"  she  said 
at  once.  "Just  before  you  came  home." 

Hendrie  raised  his  eyes.  They  were  full  of  a  dawning 
horror. 

"The  truth  does  demand,"  he  cried  almost  fiercely.  "Tell 
me !  Tell  me — as  quickly  as  you  can." 

Monica  was  caught  in  the  man's  sudden  excitement. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  but  it  is  a  long  story 
and — and  a  sordid  one.  It  all  happened  when  I  was  a  young 
girl.  I  was  only  seventeen.  Poor  Elsie.  She  had  been  away 
a  long  time  from  home.  Then  she  came  home  to  me,  her  only 
relative.  She  came  home  to  die,  and  dying  gave  birth  to  her 
son.  You  see,  she  was  never  married." 

She  paused,  but  went  on  at  once  at  the  man's  prompt 
urging. 

"She  was  never  married,  and  the  man  left  her  in  the  hour 
of  her  direst  need.  Poor  girl,  even  in  her  extremity  she  did 
not  blame  him.  She  loved  him  almost  as  much  as  she  loved 
his  little  baby  boy.  She  knew  she  was  dying,  nor  did  she 
seem  to  mind,  except  for  her  baby.  He  was  her  great 
anxiety.  But  even  in  that,  her  anxiety  was  chiefly  that  the 
child  should  never  know  of  his  mother's  shame.  So,  almost 
with  her  last  breath,  she  made  me  swear  that  I  would  bring 
him  up  as  my  own  child.  That  I  would  keep  her  secret  from 
him,  and  account  for  his  father  as  being  dead,  with  any  story 
I  chose  to  tell  him.  And  I — I,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  promised." 

She  paused.  Then  she  hurried  on  as  the  questioning  eyes 
of  the  man  were  again  raised  to  her  face. 

"But  what  does  it  matter?"  she  cried  suddenly.  "She  was 
my  only  sister  and  I  loved  her.  From  that  day  Frank  be- 
came my  own  son,  and,  for  nearly  twenty  years,  I  battled 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

with  the  world  for  him.  Nor  in  our  worst  trials  did  I  feel 
anything  but  the  greatest  joy  in  our  mutual  love.  Oh,  yes, 
when  he  grew  up,  I  had  to  lie  to  him.  I  have  had  to  lie,  lie,  lie 
all  through.  And  when  you  came  into  my  life  I  had  to  lie 
harder  than  ever.  It  was  either  that,  or  betray  my  sister's 
secret.  That  I  could  not  do — even  for  your  love.  I  chose 
the  easier  path.  I  lied  so  that  I  should  not  have  to  give 
you  up." 

"It  is  not  quite  clear — the  necessity?"  The  man  again 
raised  his  eyes  to  her  face,  but,  almost  at  once,  they  turned 
back  to  the  carpet. 

"It  is  simple  enough,"  Monica  went  on  dully.  "If  I  mar- 
ried you,  to  keep  my  sister's  secret  I  must  keep  Frank  in  the 
background.  Otherwise  I  should  have  to  give  explanations. 
To  keep  him  in  the  background  I  must  tell  him  a  story  that 
made  it  necessary.  I  did  so.  So  that  he  should  know  nothing 
of  Elsie's  shame,  and  as  I  had  brought  him  up  to  call  me 
'mother,'  I  did  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to  me  possible.  I 
took  the  whole  responsibility  upon  myself.  I  told  him  that 
though  he  was  my  son  I  had  never  been  married.  You  see,  I 
knew  his  love  for  me.  I  knew  his  chivalrous  spirit.  He 
wanted  me  to  be  happy  in  my  newly  found  love,  so — he  ac- 
cepted the  situation." 

Hendrie  shook  his  head. 

"You  kept  the  letter  of  your  promise  to  your  sister,  and — 
betrayed  the  spirit  of  it." 

Monica  hung  her  head. 

"I  know.    I  did  it  because — I  could  not  give  you  up." 

Hendrie  looked  up  with  something  like  anguish  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  woman,  woman,"  he  cried.  "Why  didn't  you  take 
me  into  your  confidence?  These  lies  could  have  been  saved, 
and — and  all  these  other,  and  even  more,  terrible  conse- 
quences. Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  the  rest.  I  can 
see  it  now.  I  can  see  it  more  clearly  than  you  can  tell  me. 
He  called  himself  Frank— Smith?" 

Monica  started. 

"Yes.  Whenever  he  visited  me  at  Deep  W7illows.  His 
real  name  was  Frank  Burton." 

Hendrie's  gaze  wandered  toward  the  window.  The  street 
lamps  had  just  been  lit.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  known  what 
it  was  to  humble  himself  before  another.  Never  had  he  known 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  253 

what  it  was  to  excuse  himself  for  any  act  of  his.  Now  he 
knew  he  must  do  both  of  these  things. 

Monica  stepped  eagerly  forward  from  the  shadow  of  the 
curtains. 

"You — you  know  where  he  is  ?"  she  demanded. 

Hendrie  nodded.  Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  A 
harsh,  mirthless  laugh  rang  through  the  darkening  room. 
Monica  stared  at  the  man's  unsmiling  face,  horrified,  and 
at  a  loss  to  understand. 

"Then  where  is  he?"  she  cried  blankly. 

"He  is  in  the  penitentiary,  serving  five  years  for  breaking 
into  Deep  Willows,  and  robbing  my  safe  of  a  bunch  of  money 
that  belonged  to  you." 

"Oh,  God  have  mercy !" 

The  cry  rang  through  the  room.  Monica  reeled  and 
would  have  fallen.  In  a  moment  her  husband's  arms  were 
about  her.  But  she  flung  him  off,  and  her  action  was  one 
of  something  like  loathing.  She  stood  up  facing  Hm,  and 
pointing  at  him,  while  her  agonized  eyes  challenged  his. 

"You— you!"  she  cried  fiercely.  Then:  "Go  on!  Tell  me 
— tell  me  quickly !  It  is  you — you  who  have  done  this !" 

Hendrie  drew  himself  up.  There  was  no  hesitation  about 
him,  no  shrinking  before  the  story  he  had  to  tell. 

"Yes,  I  did  it,"  he  said.  "I— I !  I  have  listened  to  your 
story.  Now  listen  to  mine,  and  when  you  blame  me,  you  must 
blame  yourself  as  well.  I  have  loved  you  desperately.  I  love 
you  now.  God  knows  how  I  love  you.  If  I  did  not  I  could 
never  have  endured  what  I  have  endured  in  the  past  and  kept 
my  reason.  That  is  my  excuse  for  what  I  have  done. 

"I  saw  that  picture  in  your  rooms  and  took  the  man  to  be 
an  old  lover.  I  hated  him,  and — I  tore  it  up.  I  told  you 
then  there  could  only  be  one  man  in  your  life.  I  destroyed 
that  pasteboard  as  I  would  destroy  any  one  who  came  be- 
tween us." 

Monica  remained  silent  while  the  man  choked  down  his 
rising  emotion. 

"After  we  were  married  I  became  aware  of  the  clandestine 
visits  of  a  handsome  man,  to  you,  at  Deep  Willows.  You 
were  known  to  have  embraced  him." 

"You — you  spied !" 

"I  did  not  spy — then.     I  learned  these  things,  nor  does 


254  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

it  matter  how.  I  determined  to  crush  this  man  I  believed 
to  be  your  lover.  I  determined  to  be  rid  of  him  once  and  for 
all.  My  love  for  you  was  so  great  that  what  I  believed  to  be 
your  guilt  left  me  quite  untouched.  It  was  men  I  under- 
stood ;  men  with  whom  I  was  accustomed  to  deal.  I  meant  to 
deal  with  this  man.  So  I  set  to  work.  I  need  not  tell  you 
how  I  tracked  him  down  and  kept  him  watched.  It  is  suffi- 
cient that  I  knew  of  his  visit  to  Deep  Willows  on  the  night  in 
question.  My  plans  were  carefully  laid.  I  left  very  little  to 
chance.  You  were  in  the  library  with  him,  and  Angus  sum- 
moned you,  to  give  you  some  important  news  he  had  received 
from  me.  I  had  arranged  that.  At  the  time  the  telephone 
bell  rang  I  was  beyond  the  window  with  the  sheriff  of  Ever- 
ton.  The  moment  you  left  the  room  I  entered  it.  I  found 
this  man  with  a  bunch  of  money  in  his  hand,  and  the  safe 
open  behind  him.  I  had  not  hoped  for  such  luck.  I  charged 
him  then  and  there  with  the  theft.  Oh,  I  knew  he  had  not 
stolen  it.  You  had  given  it  him,  and  it  made  me  the  more 
furious.  I  could  have  shot  him  where  he  stood.  But  it 
could  not  have  been  sufficient  punishment.  I  meant  to  crush 
him. 

"Then  I  did  the  cruelest  thing  I  could  think  of.  I  told 
him  that  I  knew  he  had  not  stolen  the  money.  I  told  him 
that  he  could  clear  himself  of  the  charge  by  calling  you  into 
the  witness  box.  In  that  way  I  knew  that  what  I  believed 
to  be  your  shame  would  reach  the  whole  world.  But  soon  I 
was  to  see  the  stuff  he  was  made  of.  He  would  not  drag  your 
name  into  the  matter.  He  submitted  to  the  charge  with  a 
simple  declaration  of  his  innocence,  and  I  was  well  enough 
satisfied.  The  rest  was  sheriff's  work.  Within  certain  limits 
I  knew  I  could  buy  the  law,  and  I  bought  it.  The  case  was 
kept  out  of  the  papers,  and  you  were  sent  well  away  from  any 
possibility  of  hearing  of  it.  The  name  he  was  tried  under, 
and  which  he  clung  to,  helped  further  to  disguise  his  identity. 
That  night  when  you  returned  to  the  library,  as  I  knew  you 
would,  you  found  the  place  in  order,  and  the  boy  gone.  You 
had  no  possible  suspicion  of  what  had  occurred.  You  could 
have  none.  You  remember  I  drove  up  later,  as  from  Everton, 
in  my  automobile." 

Hendrie  ceased  speaking.  Monica  remained  silent.  She 
stood  quite  still  looking  into  his  face  as  though  she  were 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  255 

striving  to  read  all  that  lay  behind  it,  trying  to  fathom  to 
the  very  limits  the  primitive  motives  which  had  driven  this 
man  to  the  dreadful  cruelty  he  had  so  readily  inflicted.  He 
had  sent  Frank,  her  boy,  to  a  felon's  prison.  Sent  him  with- 
out one  single  scruple,  without  mercy.  He  had  committed, 
besides,  every  base  action  he  could  have  been  guilty  of  to 
achieve  his  purpose,  and  all — for  love  of  her. 

She  tried  to  think  it  all  out  clearly.  She  tried  to  see  it 
through  his  eyes,  but  she  could  not.  The  hideousness  of  it 
all  was  too  terrible.  It  was  unforgivable. 

At  last  she  spoke.  Her  voice  was  hard  and  cold.  In  it 
Hendrie  detected,  he  believed,  the  sentence  her  woman's 
heart  had  passed  upon  him. 

"He  must  be  released  at  once,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that 
warned  him  of  all  he  had  lost.  "If  you  do  not  contrive  this 
at  once  the  world  shall  know  the  whole  story — yours  as  well 
as  mine." 

The  man  made  a  slight  movement.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  flinched  before  a  blow  in  the  face. 

"He  shall  be  released,"  he  said. 

"He  must  be  released — at  once."  Monica's  icy  tone  was 
final. 

She  turned  away,  moving  toward  the  door.  Then  sud- 
denly she  paused,  and  a  moan  of  despair  broke  from  her. 

"Oh,  Alec,"  she  cried,  "how — how  could  you?  How  could 
you  do  it?" 

The  man  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"I  love  you,  Mon,"  he  cried,  in  deep  tones.  "You  are 
more  precious  to  me  than  all  the  world — than  life  itself. 
Can't  you  understand?  Can't  you  see  just  something  of  what 
my  eyes  saw?  Where  you  are  concerned  it  is  all  so  different. 
I  could  not,  dared  not  lose  you.  I  hated  this  man,  who  I 
believed  had  robbed  me  of  your  love." 

Monica's  agonized  eyes  were  raised  to  his  for  a  moment. 

"But  where  was  your  faith?  Where  your  trust?"  she  cried. 
"Why,  why  did  you  not  openly  accuse  me?" 

"Accuse  you  ?  Mon,  you  have  yet  to  learn  all  that  my  love 
means.  You  think  me,  the  world  thinks  me,  a  strong,  even 
ruthless  man.  There  is  truth  enough  in  the  latter— God 
knows.  But  for  the  rest,  where  you  are  concerned,  I  am 
weak — so  weak.  I  am  more  than  that.  I  am  an  utter  coward, 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

too.  While  my  heart  might  break  at  the  knowledge  of  your 
infidelity,  it  would  be  incomparable  to  losing  you  out  of  my 
life.  Why  did  I  not  accuse  you  openly?  Because  I  was 
afraid  to  hear  the  truth  from  your  lips.  Do  you  know  what 
would  have  happened  had  you  confessed  to  me  that  you  loved 
this  man?  It  would  have  meant — murder.  Oh,  not  your 
death,"  as  Monica  drew  away  horrified  at  the  terrible  sin- 
cerity of  the  threat.  "That  man  would  have  died.  Now  can 
you  understand?  Won't  you  understand?" 

There  was  a  dreadful  moment  of  doubt,  of  anxiety,  while 
the  man  waited  an  answer  to  his  appeal.  No  prisoner  could 
have  awaited  sentence  with  more  desperate  hope.  His  eyes 
devoured  the  woman's  averted  face,  while  his  heart  hungered 
for  the  faintest  gleam  of  hope  it  might  hold  out.  And  waiting 
he  wondered.  Was  there  anything  in  a  woman's  love  at  all, 
or  was  he  to  be  condemned  to  a  life  with  the  doors  of  her  soul 
closed  and  barred  against  him  for  ever? 

It  seemed  an  endless  waiting.  Then  she  gave  a  sign.  She 
turned  to  him,  and  raised  a  pair  of  eyes,  whose  sadness  and 
distress  smote  him  to  the  heart,  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 
Then  he  knew,  however  undeserved,  her  love  was  still  his. 

"Perhaps  I  can  understand,  Alec,  but — but  give  me  time." 
Monica  spoke  in  a  deep,  tender  voice  that  was  full  of  pain, 
full  of  suffering.  "I  am  beginning  to  understand  many 
things  I  did  not  comprehend  before.  You,  perhaps,  are  not 
so  much  to  blame  as  I  thought.  I  have  been  so  weak,  too.  A 
little  candor  and  honesty  on  my  part  might  have  saved  it  all. 
We  are  both  terribly  to  blame,  and  perhaps  most  of  it  lies  at 
my  door.  Let  us  try  to  forget  ourselves.  Let  us  forget 
everything  but  that  which  we  owe  to  Frank.  We  both  owe 
him  so  much.  Oh,  when  I  think  of  the  way  I  have  ful- 
filled poor  Elsie's  trust  I  feel  as  though  my  heart  would 
break." 

"If  ever  a  trust  was  carried  out  truly,  yours  has  been, 
Mon." 

The  man's  arms  were  about  her,  and  he  gently  drew  her  to 
him.  He  gazed  tenderly  down  upon  her  now  tear-stained 
face. 

"No  woman  could  have  done  more  than  you  have,"  he 
went  on.  "If  things  have  gone  awry  it  is  no  fault  of  yours." 
He  smoothed  her  beautiful  hair  with  one  tender  hand.  "I 


WHEN    VOWS    MUST    YIELD  257 

give  you  my  sacred  word  your  Frank  shall  be  released.  I 
swear  it  by  the  memory  of  your  poor  dead  sister.  I  can  still 
undo  the  mischief  which  my  mad  jealousy  has  wrought,  and 
your — Elsie  will  forgive." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  upturned  face,  while  she  clung  to 
him  for  support. 

"Yes,  yes,  she  will  forgive.  It  was  her  nature  to  for- 
give," Monica  said,  in  a  wave  of  tender  memory.  "To  the 
last  she  would  not  hear  one  word  against  the  wretched  father 
of  her  boy.  Do  you  know,  Alec,  I  sometimes  wonder  that 
Heaven  allows  such  men  to  go  about  working  their  cruel 
mischief  upon  trusting  women." 

Hendrie  stirred  uneasily,  and  his  arms  gently  released  her. 

"Tell  me  of  her — of  him,"  he  said,  his  eyes  turned  upon  the 
streaming  light  from  the  street  lamps. 

Monica  became  thoughtful. 

"I  know  so  little  about  him,"  she  said,  after  a  slight  pause. 
"You  see,  I  never  saw  him ;  and  Elsie — she  would  say  so  little. 
It  seems  she  met  him  in  New  York.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  Elsie 
was  an  actress.  She  acted  under  the  name  of  Audie  Thome." 

The  man  started.  Then,  slowly,  his  eyes  came  back  to 
her  face.  Fortunately  their  expression  was  lost  upon  her, 
and,  before  she  could  turn  in  his  direction,  he  was  once  more 
gazing  out  at  the  brilliant  light  which,  somehow,  he  was  no 
longer  aware  of.  He  was  listening  to  his  wife's  voice,  but  her 
words  conveyed  little  enough  to  him  now.  His  mind  was  far 
back  in  a  dim,  almost  forgotten  past. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  all  happened,"  Monica  went  on. 
"She  was  doing  so  well  on  the  stage.  Then  she  met  this  man, 
Leo.  The  next  thing  she  was  up  in  the  Yukon  with  him.  He 
was  prospecting.  Then  they  were  traveling  down  country- 
overland — with  an  Indian  scout.  That's  when  he  deserted 
her.  She  only  managed  to  reach  me,  in  San  Sabatano, 
through  the  aid  of  the  scout.  He  gave  her  money.  Money 
paid  him  for  the  trip."  Then  a  world  of  contempt  crept  into 
her  voice.  "I  suppose  it  was  the  coming  of  Elsie's  baby 
which  frightened  him — the  cowardly  brute." 

Hendrie  nodded,  his  face  studiously  averted. 

"Perhaps,"  he  murmured.  "But  one  can  never  be  sure  of 
such  a  man's  motives." 

"Motives?"     There  was  unutterable  scorn  in  the  woman's 

18 


258  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

voice.  "And  while  he  goes  free,  she,  poor  soul,  is  left  to 
suffer  and  die — in  the — gutter!" 

"But — you  sheltered  her?     You  cared  for  her?" 

The  man's  voice  was  almost  pleading. 

"Thank  God,  I  could  at  least  do  that — but  it  was  not 
through  any  doing  of  his.  Oh,  if  only  I  had  the  punishing  of 
such — as  he." 

"Perhaps  he  will  get  his  punishment,  even  as  you  could 
desire  it.  Perhaps  he  has  got  it." 

"I  pray  God  it  may  be  so." 

Quite  suddenly  Hendrie  turned  about  and  faced  her.  His 
face  was  thrown  into  the  shadow  by  the  light  of  the  window, 
which  was  now  behind  him. 

"These  are  past  days,  Mon,"  he  said,  in  his  decided  fashion. 
"We  have  to  do  with  errors,  faults  of  the  present.  I  must 
get  to  work  at  once  to  repair  something  of  the  damage  I  have 
done.  You  employed  detectives.  Who?" 

"The  Redtown  Agency." 

"Good.  I  will  see  them  at  once.  You  must  dine  alone  to- 
night. I  will  report  later." 

The  man  moved  suddenly  across  to  his  desk,  and  one  hand 
fell  heavily  upon  the  carved  mahogany  of  it.  He  looked 
across  into  the  face  of  the  woman  he  loved,  and  the  fire  of  a 
great  purpose  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"Thank  God  I  am  the  rich  man  I  am !"  he  cried.  "Thank 
God  for  the  power  of  wealth.  You  shall  see,  Mon,  you  shall 
see  !  Leave  me  now,  for  I  must — work.  Hark !" 

The  deep  note  of  the  dinner  gong  rang  out  its  opulent  song 
in  the  hall. 

"Dinner !"  Hendrie  remained  standing.  "You  had  better 
go — now." 

Monica  reluctantly  moved  toward  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Very  well,  dear,"  she  said.  "You  will  tell  me  all  you  have 
done — later.  Thank  God,  there  is  no  more  need  for  secrecy 
between  us." 

The  brilliant  light  of  the  hall  silhouetted  her  figure  as  she 
stood.  But  for  once,  though  his  eyes  took  in  every  detail  of 
the  picture  she  made,  Alexander  Hendrie  remained  wholly 
unappreciative. 

His  mind  was  already  far  away,  moving  swiftly  over  other, 
long  past  scenes.  He  was  not  even  thinking  of  the  innocent 


TWO    LETTERS  259 

victim  of  his  jealousy.  He  was  traveling  again  the  long,  lean, 
cruel  winter  trail.  He  was  once  more  toiling  amid  the  snows 
of  the  bitter  north. 

"You  are  sure,  sure — it  can  be  done?" 

The  spell  was  broken. 

"Sure,"  the  man  replied,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

The  door  closed.  The  darkened  room  was  still  and  silent. 
For  some  moments  the  man  remained  standing  where  he  was. 
Then  he  slowly  moved  over  the  soft  rugs  to  the  light  switch 
on  the  wall,  and  his  hand  rested  upon  it.  He  hesitated. 
Then,  with  an  impatient  movement,  he  pressed  the  brass 
knob,  and  the  room  was  flooded  with  light. 

He  stared  out  across  the  sumptuous  furnishings,  but  did 
not  attempt  to  move.  His  face  was  ghastly  in  the  glare  of 
light.  His  eyes  were  full  of  horror  and  straining. 

Presently  he  moved  a  step  toward  the  desk.  It  was  only 
one  step.  He  halted.  Slowly  his  look  of  horror  deepened. 
He  raised  one  great  hand  and  passed  the  fingers  of  it  through 
his  mane  of  tawny  hair.  It  was  the  movement  of  a  man  half 
dazed.  Then  his  lips  moved. 

"Audie !"  he  murmured,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.    "Audie !" 


CHAPTER  III 

TWO   LETTERS 

NUMBER  "FORTY-NINE"  was  standing  just  inside  and  clear 
of  the  door  of  his  cell.  It  was  dinner  time  in  the  Alston  Peni- 
tentiary. On  the  gallery  outside  the  faint  hubbub  of  the 
distribution  of  food  just  reached  him.  He  was  hungry,  even 
for  prison  fare. 

"Forty-nine"  heard  the  trolley  stop  at  the  door  of  the 
next  cell.  He  heard  the  click  of  the  lock  as  the  door  was 
opened.  Then  came  the  sodden  sound  of  something  moist 
emptied  into  a  pannikin,  and  then  the  swish  of  liquid.  The 
door  clicked  again,  and  he  knew  his  turn  was  next. 

The  trolley  stopped.  His  door  opened.  A  man,  in  the 
hideous  striped  costume,  like  his  own,  of  a  fellow-convict, 
winked  up  into  his  face.  It  was  the  friendly  wink  of  an  evil 


260  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

eye.  The  man  passed  him  in  a  loaf  of  black  bread.  Then, 
with  a  dexterity  almost  miraculous,  a  second  loaf  shot  into 
"forty-nine's"  hands,  and  was  immediately  secreted  in  the 
rolled  hammock,  which  served  for  a  bed. 

The  whole  thing  was  done  almost  under  the  very  eyes  of  a 
watchful  warder.  But  he  remained  in  ignorance  of  it.  The 
double  ration  was  a  friendly  act  that  was  more  than  appreci- 
ated, however  evil  the  eye  that  winked  its  sympathy.  The 
prisoner's  shining  pannikin  was  filled,  and  a  thin  stream  of 
cocoa  was  poured  into  his  large  tin  cup.  Then  the  trolley 
and  its  attendants  passed  on,  and  the  door  automatically 
closed. 

"Forty-nine"  glanced  about  him,  and,  finally,  sat  on  the 
floor  of  his  cell.  He  sniffed  at  the  vegetable  stew  in  his 
pannikin,  and  tasted  it.  Yes,  he  was  too  hungry  to  reject 
the  watery  slush.  He  took  a  loaf,  tore  it  in  shreds  with  his 
fingers  and  sopped  it  in  the  liquid.  Then  he  devoured  it  as 
rapidly  as  the  hard  black  crust  would  permit.  After  that  his 
attention  was  turned  to  the  cocoa.  The  same  process  was 
adopted  here,  and,  by  the  time  his  meal  was  finished,  and  the 
process  of  cleaning  his  utensils  was  begun,  his  appetite  was 
fully  appeased. 

It  was  a  hideous  place,  this  dreadful  cell.  It  was  bare 
from  the  ceiling  above  to  the  hard  floor  on  which  he  was 
sitting.  In  one  corner  a  hammock  was  rolled  up  to  a  uni- 
versal pattern  adopted  throughout  the  prison.  There  was 
a  small  box  in  one  corner  in  which  cleaning  materials  were 
carefully  packed,  and  close  by  were  placed  two  books  from 
the  prison  library.  For  the  rest  there  was  nothing  but  the 
bare  walls,  in  which,  high  up,  was  set  a  grated  aperture  to 
admit  light  and  air. 

After  cleaning  up  his  utensils  in  orthodox  fashion  "forty- 
nine"  went  to  his  box  and  produced  a  lump  of  uneatable,  half 
cured  bacon  fat,  left  from  his  breakfast.  With  this  he  calmly 
set  to  work  on  a  process  of  massaging  his  hands.  The  work 
of  the  convict  prison  was  cruel.  In  a  short  while  hands  would 
become  a  mere  mockery  of  their  original  form.  To  obviate 
this,  the  fat  bacon  process  had  been  adopted,  and  "forty- 
nine"  had  learned  it  from  the  fellow-convi'cts,  more  familiar 
with  the  ways  and  conditions  of  prison  life. 

"Forty-nine's"   self-appointed   task   was   just   completed 


TWO    LETTERS  £61 

when,  without  warning,  the  door  of  his  cell  suddenly  opened, 
and  the  burly  form  of  a  rubber-shod  warder  appeared. 

"Forty-nine !    For  the  governor.     Right  away !" 

There  was  just  a  suspicion  of  softening  from  the  warder's 
usual  manner  in  the  order. 

"Forty-nine"  looked  up  without  interest.  His  eyes  were 
hollow,  his  cheeks  drawn.  A  deep,  hopeless  melancholy 
seemed  to  weigh  upon  his  whole  expression.  A  year  of  one 
of  the  hardest  penitentiaries  in  the  country,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  years  of  service  yet  to  complete,  left  hope  far  beyond 
the  reach  of  his  crushed  spirit.  He  stood  up  obediently. 
His  manner  was  pathetically  submissive.  His  great  frame, 
little  more  than  frame,  towered  over  his  guard. 

The  man  stood  aside  from  the  doorway  and  the  convict 
passed  out. 

The  governor  looked  up  from  his  desk  in  the  center  of  a 
large,  simply  furnished  hall.  Behind  a  wrought  iron  cage  at 
the  far  end  of  the  apartment  stood  number  "Forty-nine," 
with  the  warder  close  behind. 

The  governor  turned  to  his  secretary  and  spoke  in  an 
undertone.  He  was  a  youngish,  baldheaded  man  who  had 
acquired  nothing  of  the  hardness  of  visage  to  be  found  in  his 
subordinates.  Just  now  there  was  something  almost  like  a 
kindly,  sympathetic  twinkle  in  his  eyes  as  he  opened  out  a 
sheaf  of  papers,  evidently  to  do  with  the  man  just  ushered 
into  his  presence. 

The  secretary  rose  from  his  seat  and  walked  over  to  the 
iron  cage.  Unfastening  a  heavy  lock  he  flung  it  open.  To 
the  prisoner,  full  of  the  bitterness  of  his  lot,  it  almost  seemed 
as  though  he  were  some  wild  beast  being  suddenly  released 
from  captivity. 

The  secretary  signed  to  the  warder  to  bring  his  charge 
into  the  room.  This  unusual  proceeding  left  the  astonished 
warder  at  a  loss.  And  it  required  a  sharp  order  from  the 
governor  himself  to  move  him. 

"Forty-nine"  was  conducted  to  the  far  side  of  the  desk, 
and  the  governor  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"I  am  pleased  to  be  able  to  inform  you — er — a  free  par- 
don has  been — er — extended  to  you." 

The   announcement  was  made  in   formal  tones,  but  the 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

look  in  the  eyes  of  the  speaker  was  the  only  human  thing  to 
be  found  in  the  notorious  Alston  Penitentiary.  Even  the 
worst  criminals  who  were  brought  into  contact  with  Gover- 
nor Charles  Raymond  had,  however  grudgingly,  to  admit 
his  humanity,  which  only  left  it  the  greater  mystery  that  the 
methods  of  his  prison  were  all  so  directly  opposed  to  his 
nature. 

"Forty-nine"  started.  For  a  moment  the  settled  melan- 
choly of  his  cadaverous  face  lightened.  A  hand  went  up  to 
his  head  as  though  to  ascertain  that  he  was  not  dreaming. 
It  came  into  contact  with  the  bristles  of  his  cropped  hair, 
and  dropped  at  once  to  his  side. 

"I'm  to  go — free,  sir?" 

"That's  precisely  what  I'm  telling  you." 

"Forty-nine's"  eyes  rolled.  He  looked  from  the  governor 
to  the  secretary. 

"Pardon?"  he  said.  Then  a  hot  light  grew  in  his  eyes  at 
an  inner  sense  of  injustice  in  the  method  of  his  release. 
"But  I've  done  nothing  wrong,  sir." 

Charles  Raymond  smiled.  But  his  smile  was  genuine  and 
expressed  none  of  the  usual  incredulity. 

"That  is  a  matter  for  yourself.  I  simply  receive  my 
orders  from  the  usual  authorities.  Those  orders  are  that  a 
free  pardon  has  been  extended  to  you.  I  also  have  here  a 
letter  for  you,  which,  since  it  is  in  a  lady's  handwriting,  and 
you  are  to  be  released  at  once,  I  have  waived  the  regulations 
and  refrained  from  opening.  You  will  receive  your  railroad 
fare  to  whatever  place  in  the  country  you  wish  to  go.  Also 
the  usual  prison  allowance  in  cash.  That  will  do.  The 
prison  chaplain  will  visit  you  before  you  go  out." 

"I  don't  need  to  see  him,  sir.     He  tires  me." 

The  secretary  looked  up  sharply  at  the  fiercely  resentful 
tone  of  the  prisoner's  denial.  But  the  governor  only  smiled. 

"As  you  will,"  he  said,  and  signed  again  to  the  warder. 
"Your  letter  will  be  handed  to  you  at  the  outer  gate — with 
the  other  things." 

"Forty-nine"  was  marched  off.  He  re-entered  the  iron 
cage  and  vanished  amid  the  labyrinth  of  iron  galleries 
beyond. 

As  he  passed  out  of  the  office  the  governor  turned  to  his 
secretary. 


TWO    LETTERS  263 

"I've  looked  up  the  record  of  that  man's  trial.  Guess 
there's  some  mystery  behind  it.  Poor  devil.  Only  a  young- 
ster, too.  I  wonder."  Then  he  turned  to  his  papers  again. 
"Well,  they  got  him  by  the  heels,  and  started  him  on  the 
road  to  hell,  anyway.  Poor  devil." 

The  secretary's  murmured  agreement  with  his  chief's 
commiseration  was  non-committal.  He  had  no  sympathy. 
He  took  his  salary  and  anything  else  that  came  his  way. 
To  him  convicts  were  not  human. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Frank  Burton  found 
himself  at  the  outer  wicket  of  the  prison.  He  was  clad  now 
in  his  own  clothes;  the  clothes  he  had  worn  on  the  night  of 
his  arrest.  His  prairie  hat  was  crushed  unusually  low  upon 
his  close-cropped  head.  As  he  approached  he  called  out  his 
number  for  the  last  time. 

"Forty-nine!" 

The  guard  was  ready  for  him. 

"Going  to  Toronto?"  he  said,  pushing  a  paper  and  pen 
toward  him.  "Twenty-eight  dollars  and  seventy  cents. 
Prison  allowance  four  dollars  fifty.  Your  letter.  Sign!" 

The  money  was  handed  to  him  in  separate  amounts,  and 
the  letter  was  placed  beside  them.  Frank  signed  in  a  trem- 
bling hand,  and  took  his  possessions.  Then  he  moved  toward 
the  wicket. 

"So  long!"  cried  the  chief  guard.  Then  he  added  face- 
tiously. "Maybe  I'll  see  you  again  some  day." 

Frank  made  no  answer.  He  was  beyond  words.  He 
passed  through  the  wicket,  which  the  guard  opened  for  him, 
and  stood  outside  in  the  summer  evening  light — a  free  man. 

But  he  experienced  no  feeling  of  elation.  A  sort  of 
apathy  had  got  hold  of  him.  His  liberty  now  seemed  almost 
a  matter  of  indifference,  and  it  was  merely  a  mechanical 
movement  that  took  him  away  from  the  frowning  gray 
stone  ramparts  which  had  held  him  for  a  long  twelve  months. 
He  had  no  thought  of  whither  his  steps  were  taking  him. 
That,  too,  seemed  to  be  a  matter  of  no  importance. 

He  moved  on  and  on,  quite  slowly.  His  letter  was  still 
unopened  in  his  pocket,  whence  it  had  been  thrust  along 
with  his  money.  The  trail  wound  its  way  down  the  hill  upon 
which  the  prison  stood.  It  led  on,  nearly  two  miles  away,  to 


264  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  village  of  Alston,  But  it  might  have  been  Chicago  for 
all  Frank  cared. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  past  year,  and  all  the  events  which 
led  up  to  his  incarceration,  with  the  bitterness  of  spirit 
which  only  such  unutterable  degradation  could  inspire.  Nor, 
curiously  enough,  were  his  feelings  directed  against  the 
author,  or  the  methods  by  which  his  downfall  had  been 
brought  about.  All  that  had  long  since  exhausted  itself 
during  the  interminable  hours  of  wakefulness  spent  in  his 
stuffy  cell.  His  feelings  against  the  man  had  worn  them- 
selves out,  that  is,  they  had  settled  down  to  a  cold,  unemo- 
tional hatred.  No,  it  was  the  thought  of  life  itself  which 
haunted  him  like  an  evil  shadow,  from  which  he  would  gladly 
have  escaped. 

For  him  life  seemed  to  be  ended.  Whichever  way  he 
looked  it  was  the  same.  Nothing  could  help  him,  nothing 
could  save  him  from  the  hideous  stigma  under  which  he  lay. 
He  was  a  convict,  an  ex-convict,  and  to  the  hour  of  his  death 
so  he  would  remain.  Wherever  he  went  the  pointing  finger 
would  follow  him.  There  was  no  escape.  The  brutalizing 
influence  under  which  he  had  existed  for  twelve  months  had 
got  into  his  very  bones. 

He  told  himself  that  he  belonged  to  the  underworld,  to 
the  same  world  to  which  some  of  those  wretched  beings  be- 
longed who  had  only  escaped  death  at  the  hands  of  the  law 
on  some  slight  quibble,  and  with  whom  he  had  so  recently 
herded.  The  daylight  could  never  again  be  for  him.  He  be- 
longed to  the  darkened  streets  where  recognition  was  less 
easy,  where  crime  stalked  abroad,  and  flitting  shadows  of 
pursuer  and  pursued  hovered  the  night  long. 

He  sank  wearily  at  the  roadside.  His  weariness  was  of 
spirit.  His  body  was  as  hard  as  nails  from  the  tremendous 
physical  labors  of  the  past  year.  A  morbid  craving  to  re- 
view his  wrongs  was  upon  him,  that  and  an  invincible  desire 
to  wait  for  the  gathering  of  the  evening  shadows. 

The  westering  sun  was  shining  full  upon  him.  A  great 
waste  of  open  land  stretched  away  toward  a  purple  line  of 
low  hills,  fringed  with  a  darker  shadow  of  woods.  Not  a 
living  soul  was  about,  no  one  but  himself  seemed  to  be  upon 
that  trail — and  he  was  glad. 

For  long  hours  he  sat  brooding,  and,  with'  each  passing 


TWO    LETTERS  265 

minute,  his  morbid  fancies  grew.  He  felt  that  from  the  be- 
ginning he  had  been  doomed  to  disaster,  and  he  only  won- 
dered that  he  had  not  realized  it  before.  Was  he  not  a 
bastard?  Was  he  not  a  nobody?  His  father?  He  never 
had  a  father,  only  the  wretched  creature  whose  selfish  pas- 
sions had  brought  him  into  the  world. 

He  saw  it  all  in  its  true  colors  now.  He  could  more  fully 
understand  it.  That  was  the  brand  under  which  he  was 
born,  and  it  was  a  brand  which  was  part  of  the  criminal 
side  of  life. 

His  thoughts  drifted  on  to  Phyllis.  She  had  not  under- 
stood when  he  told  her.  How  could  she?  She  was  clean, 
she  was  wholesome,  she  was  born  in  wedlock.  She — but  he 
turned  impatiently  from  the  drift  of  his  thoughts.  He  could 
never  go  back  to  her.  She,  like  his  mother,  was  a  part  of 
that  life  which  was  over  and  done  with.  He  belonged  to 
another  world  now.  The  underworld. 

The  underworld.  But  why — why  should  he  live  on,  part 
of  a  world  he  hated  and  loathed?  Why  should  he  permit  the 
cruel  injustice  of  such  a  fate?  There  was  a  way  to  defeat 
this  ruthless  enemy.  Why  not  adopt  it?  Why  live?  He 
had  no  desire  to  do  so.  He  had  the  means  at  his  disposal. 
He  had  money  with  which  to  procure  a  gun.  Why  go  to 
Toronto  at  all?  Why  show  his  shaven  head  to  the  world,  an 
object  for  that  hateful,  pointing  finger? 

For  a  while  the  idea  pleased  him.  It  was  such  a  simple 
remedy  for  all  his  sufferings.  He  had  passed  out  of  Phyllis's 
life,  so  why  risk  the  finger  of  scorn  being  pointed  at  her 
through  the  fact  of  his  existence.  And  his  mother.  His 
gentle  mother.  He  caught  his  breath.  The  finger  of  scorn 
would  never  be  a  burden  to  her.  She  was  not  like  others. 
Her  memory  still  retained  the  faintest  sheen  of  light  amid 
his  darkness.  He  knew,  even  in  those  dark  moments,  that 
his  self-inflicted  death  would  utterly  destroy  her  life.  No. 
He  was  condemned  to  this  under 

He  remembered  his  unopened  letter,  and  drew  it  from  his 
pocket.  He  had  not  looked  at  it  before.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  had  any  connection  still  with  a  world 
beyond  the  gray  stone  prison  walls. 

Now  he  looked  at  the  envelope,  and  felt  the  hot  blood  of 
shame  sweep  up  to  his  tired  brain  as  he  saw  that  it  bore  his 


266  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

mother's  handwriting.      He   opened  it   reluctantly   enough. 

Folded  carefully  inside  a  number  of  sheets  of  closely  writ- 
ten paper  was  a  large  sum  of  money.  He  took  it  out  and 
examined  it.  There  were  five  thousand  dollars.  Most  of  it 
was  in  bills  of  large  denomination,  but  on  the  top,  with 
careful  forethought,  there  were  half  a  dozen  which  ran  from 
ten  dollars  down  to  one  dollar  bills.  He  understood,  and 
the  careful  attention  only  left  him  the  more  pained. 

With  these  was  a  smaller  envelope.  It  was  addressed  in 
Phyllis's  well-known  hand.  This,  with  the  money,  he  be- 
stowed in  an  inner  pocket  and  proceeded  to  read  his  mother's 
letter  first. 

But  the  pathos  of  it,  the  breaking  heart,  which  was  suffi- 
ciently apparent  in  every  line  of  that  long  story  she  had  to 
tell,  passed  him  utterly  by,  and  left  him  unmoved.  Just  now 
he  had  no  sympathy  for  anything  or  anybody  in  the  world 
but  himself,  and  it  would  have  needed  the  heart  of  a  Puritan 
to  have  blamed  him.  Yet  his  reading  was  not  without  in- 
terest in  spite  of  the  hardness  of  his  mood. 

It  was  a  long,  long  story  that  Monica  had  to  tell  him,  and 
it  was  full  of  that  detail,  rambling  detail,  inspired  by  the 
knowledge  that  she  no  longer  had  anything  to  conceal,  the 
knowledge  that  the  truth  could  be  indulged  in,  in  a  manner 
that  had  been  so  long  denied  her.  From  the  very  outset  she 
told  him  the  real  facts  of  his  birth,  and  it  was  with  some- 
thing approaching  regret  that  he  learned  that  she,  Monica, 
was  not  his  mother.  Somehow  the  shame  of  his  birth,  as  it 
had  reflected  upon  her,  was  forgotten.  Somehow  the  stigma 
seemed  to  belong  to  him  solely. 

In  her  story  she  carried  him  through  the  old,  old  days  of 
their  life  together,  reminding  him  of  trials  and  struggles 
never  before  fully  explained.  Tribulations  which  pointed 
for  him  her  devotion  and  loyalty  to  the  dead  and  the  living. 

Then  she  passed  on  to  the  manner  in  which  he  had  been 
trapped  by  her  husband.  Here  were  displayed  her  passion- 
torn  feelings,  which  left  the  man  cold.  She  gave  all  the  de- 
tails in  uncolored  nakedness,  and  while  condemning  utterly? 
the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  her  husband,  she  yet  pointed 
his  motives  and  pleaded  for  him. 

Then  she  passed  on  to  the  manner  of  her  own  discovery 
of  his  whereabouts  in  prison,  her  own  discovery  of  her  hus- 


TWO    LETTERS  267 

band's  ruthless  handiwork.  And  again  came  that  note  of 
pleading  for  the  man  she  loved.  She  told  him  how  Hendrie, 
directly  he  discovered  his  hideous  mistake,  moved  heaven 
and  earth,  and  scattered  money  broadcast,  to  obtain  his 
release;  and  how,  at  last,  he  had  succeeded. 

Finally  she  appealed  to  him  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
mother's  love  to  come  back  to  her  at  once.  To  come  back 
and  receive  all  the  reparation  which  she  and  her  husband 
were  yearning  to  make. 

At  the  end  of  the  reading  Frank  refolded  the  letter  and 
returned  it  to  his  pocket.  In  spite  of  the  identity  of  its 
author,  in  spite  of  his  own  natural  kindliness  of  heart,  there 
was  not  one  sign  of  softening  in  his  now  hardened  blue  eyes. 

It  was  different,  however,  with  his  second  letter.  Phyllis 
had  no  story  to  tell,  she  had  no  forgiveness  to  plead  for  any 
one.  She  merely  had  the  fullness  of  her  own  simple,  loving 
heart  to  pour  out  at  his  feet.  Not  once  through  four  pages 
of  closely  written  paper  did  she  hint  at  his  hardships,  his 
dreadful  wrongs.  She  loved  him,  she  wanted  him,  as  she  be- 
lieved he  loved  and  wanted  her;  and  so  she  just  told  him, 
as  only  Phyllis,  with  her  wide  understanding  and  simplicity 
of  heart  could  have  told  him. 

As  he  returned  this  letter  to  his  pocket  there  was  a 
marked  difference  in  his  manner.  There  was  a  lingering  ten- 
derness in  his  actions,  and  a  dewy  moisture  about  his  hollow 
eyes. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  a  golden  twilight  was  softening  the 
world  to  a  gentle,  almost  velvet  tone  as  he  rose  from  the  edge 
of  the  grass-lined  trail.  He  stood  erect.  That  painful 
slouch  he  had  acquired  during  the  past  year  appeared  to 
have  left  his  shoulders.  His  head  was  lifted,  and  he  began 
to  walk  down  the  trail  at  a  gait  full  of  decision  and  purpose. 
Phyllis's  love  had  heartened  him  as  it  always  heartened  him. 
Something  of  his  morbid  shadows  had  receded  before  the 
brightly  burning  lamp  of  her  love.  He  felt  a  better  man, 
and  a  spirit  of  defiance  had  risen  to  combat  the  claims  of 
that  underworld  which  had  threatened  to  swallow  him  up. 

At  Alston  he  made  his  way  to  a  store  where  he  could  pro- 
cure some  letter  paper  and  envelopes.  Just  for  one  mo- 
ment he  hesitated  at  the  door  of  the  building.  He  was 
about  to  meet  a  free  citizen.  One  who  had  never  known 


268      9       THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

prison  bars.  With  a  thrust  he  drew  his  hat  well  down  to  his 
ears,  squared  his  shoulders  and  went  in.  His  precautions 
proved  needless.  The  man  who  served  him  was  used  to  such 
visitors,  and  quite  indifferent.  He  scarcely  even  looked  at 
him  as  he  fulfilled  his  order,  and  took  the  prison  money. 

Frank  hurried  away.  His  self-consciousness  was  quite 
painful.  But  he  meant  to  beat  it. 

His  next  effort  was  a  restaurant.  He  was  a  long  time 
making  his  selection.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  him  to  wonder  at 
the  number  of  cheap  eating  houses  this  small  village  sup- 
ported. Finally,  however,  he  accepted  the  doubtful  hospi- 
tality of  a  Chinese  establishment  where  they  dispensed  a 
cheap  chop-suey.  Again  his  appearance  cause  no  surprise 
as  he  gave  his  order  and  then  sat  down  at  a  corner  table. 

Here  he  drew  out  his  letter  paper  and  laid  it  on  the  much- 
stained  table  before  him,  and,  in  a  moment,  had  forgotten 
the  almond-eyed  attendant  who  was  preparing  his  food. 

He  felt  it  necessary  to  answer  Monica's  letter  at  once. 
His  purpose  was  definite  and  quite  clear  in  his  mind.  The 
past,  his  past,  their  past  was  done  with.  He  would  face  the 
world  alone,  and  on  his  own  resources.  The  letter  was  quite 
short  and  was  finished  before  the  Chinaman  brought  him  his 
food. 

His  meal  finished  and  bill  settled,  he  waited  until  the  lynx- 
eyed  Mongolian  was  engaged  elsewhere.  Then  he  placed  the 
letter  and  the  five  thousand  dollars  into  an  envelope  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  Monica  at  Winnipeg.  It  was  his  intention  to 
mail  the  packet  from  Toronto. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON    THE    RAILROAD 

No  man  may  serve  a  term  of  imprisonment  in  a  modem 
prison  and  return  to  freedom  on  the  same  moral  plane  as  he 
left  it.  A  man  may  fall,  but  he  may  rise  again,  provided  he 
is  saved  from  that  lifelong  branding  which  a  penal  prison 
leaves  upon  its  victim.  Innocent  or  guilty  the  modern  prison 
system  is  an  invention  which  must  rob  its  victim  for  ever  of 
his  confidence,  his  self-respect,  almost  of  his  hope.  It  is  an 


ON    THE    RAILROAD  269 

institution  set  up  to  protect  the  free  citizen,  and  terrorize 
the  wrong-doer  into  better  ways.  And  it  does  neither  of  these 
thing's.  Instead,  it  pours  upon  society,  daily,  a  stream  of 
hopeless,  hardened,  bitter  creatures,  who,  through  its  merci- 
less process,  have  abandoned  what  little  grip  the}7  ever  had 
upon  their  moral  natures,  and  drives  them  along  the  broad, 
ill-lit  road  of  crime.  Instead  of  being  the  deterrent  it  is 
supposed  to  be,  it  is  the  worst  creator  of  crime  known  to 
civilization. 

These  were  some  of  the  reflections  forced  upon  young 
Frank  Burton  after  twelve  months'  bitter  experience  in 
Alston  Penitentiary,  And  now,  with  each  passing  moment 
of  his  new  freedom,  the  truth  of  these  painful  observations 
was  more  and  more  surely  brought  home  to  him.  An  innocent 
man,  he  had  come  out  into  the  light  of  freedom,  dreading  and 
shrinking  before  every  eye  that  was  turned  in  his  direction. 
His  self-confidence  was  shaken.  All  his  old  trust  and  belief 
in  the  goodness  of  the  life  about  him  seemed  to  have  melted 
into  dark  and  painful  suspicion,  and,  for  the  time  at  least,  he 
was  forced  into  those  darkened  purlieus  which  belong  to  the 
world  of  crime.  The  light  was  unendurable. 

He  had  changed  terribly  from  the  buoyant  lad  he  had  been. 
He  had  seen  so  much,  thought  so  much  during  those  twelve 
long  months,  that  now  he  was  weighted  down  by  a  maturity 
that  belonged  to  twice  his  years. 

He  knew  he  could  never  go  back  to  the  old  life.  That  he 
had  long  since  made  up  his  mind  up  to.  More  than  that,  he 
could  not  accept  benefits  from  those  who  belonged  to  it, 
whom  he  had  known  and  loved.  Even  Phyllis,  for  all  her 
ardent  affection,  she,  too,  belonged  to  a  life  that  was  wholly 
dead. 

The  future,  his  future,  lay  in  his  own  two  empty  hands. 
Those  whom  he  loved,  and  those  whom  he  hated  and  despised 
could  have  no  part  in  it.  Were  it  otherwise  he  felt  that  to 
see  Monica  would  be  to  bring  him  into  contact  with  Hendrie, 
and  such  contact  could  only  stir  in  him  all  the  evil  influ- 
ences of  the  prison,  influences  from  which  it  was  his  deter- 
mination to  escape. 

Phyllis?    Little  Phyllis? 

No.  She  must  go,  too.  The  band  of  the  criminal  had 
sunk  too  deeply  into  his  soul.  She  must  be  left  free.  No 


270  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

such  contamination  must  be  brought  into  her  life.  His  love 
for  her  was  far  too  great  for  him  to  submit  her  to  such  a 
dreadful  disaster  as  marriage  with  an  ex-convict. 

He  had  thought  of  all  these  tilings  before,  he  thought 
again  of  them  now.  They  were  rarely  absent  from  his  mind. 

The  moment  he  read  Monica's  letter  he  knew  what  he  in- 
tended to  do.  And  it  was  the  same  when  he  hungrily  de- 
voured the  words  of  devotion  he  received  from  Phyllis. 
Dealing  with  Monica's  letter  had  been  simple  enough.  With 
Phyllis's  it  was  a  far  different  matter.  He  wanted  her  to 
understand.  He  knew  he  must  hurt  her,  but  he  felt  that  by 
presenting  all  his  feelings  to  her,  she,  with  her  wide  under- 
standing, would  appreciate  and  accept  his  decisions. 

The  whole  journey  from  Alston  to  Fieldcoats,  in  the  old- 
fashioned  rumbling  "stage,"  was  given  up  to  these  hopeless 
meditations  of  an  outcast.  And  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  was 
glad  that  he  had  the  time  to  think  of  the  letter  he  must  send 
this  girl  at  once. 

It  was  dark  when  the  twinkling  lights  of  Fieldcoats,  the 
nearest  town  where  he  would  take  train  for  Toronto,  came 
into  view,  and  he  was  glad  of  that  friendly  obscurity.  His 
shrinking  from  the  light  was  no  morbid  feeling.  With  his 
close-cropped  head  the  story  of  his  recent  past  was  open  for 
every  one  to  read. 

He  did  not  complete  the  journey  to  the  final  halting  place 
of  the  stage,  but  dropped  off  it  in  the  lower  and  more  ob- 
scure part  of  the  town.  It  was  here  that  he  meant  to  begin 
his  new  life.  A  cheap,  clean  bed  was  all  he  desired,  just  a 
place  where  he  could  rest  between  sheets,  and  write  his  long 
letter  to  Phyllis.  He  wanted  something  solid  on  four  legs. 
Something  which  would  not  remind  him  of  the  hammock  he 
had  learned  to  hate. 

He  found  the  place  he  required  without  difficulty.  It 
vaunted  the  title,  "The  Alexandra  Hotel,"  and  its  beds,  in 
cubicles,  were  let  out  at  twenty-five  cents  and  ten  cents  a 
night.  It  was  a  mere  "dossing  house,"  but  that  was  quite  a 
matter  of  indifference.  He  felt  he  had  no  right  to  squeam- 
ishness. 

He  booked  one  of  the  higher  priced  cubicles  and  ascer- 
tained that  it  was  clean.  Then,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation, 
and  some  squaring  of  the  shoulders,  he  prepared  to  face  the 


ON    THE    RAILROAD  271 

curious  eyes  of  the  derelicts  who  haunted  the  "office"  of  the 
establishment. 

To  face  even  these,  with  his  close-cropped  head,  Frank 
found  no  light  task,  but  he  knew  that  for  weeks  yet  he  must 
keep  himself  hardened  to  the  consciousness  of  his  prison 
brand.  The  only  thing  possible  was  a  desperately  bold 
front,  a  front  that  would  intimidate,  the  curious,  and,  if 
necessary,  he  must  follow  it  up  with  all  it  threatened. 

So  he  entered  the  room  and  calmly  looked  about  him.  He 
was  big,  spare,  and  enormously  powerful.  His  hard  blue 
eyes  deliberately  sought  for  any  eye  that  might  be  turned 
in  his  direction.  His  trouble  was  wasted.  He  forgot  that 
these  poor  creatures,  lounging  upon  the  hard  Windsor 
chairs,  reading  papers,  or  staring  hopelessly  before  them 
while  they  smoked,  were  derelicts  like  himself.  Nobody 
gave  him  the  slightest  heed,  and  he  was  left  to  seek  out  his 
obscure  corner  where  he  could  write  in  peace. 

Once  assured  of  his  immunity,  Frank  began  his  letter,  and 
promptly  became  completely  lost  to  his  surroundings.  The 
long-pent  thoughts  of  the  past  year  flowed  passionately  as 
he  attempted  to  show  the  girl  he  loved  all  that  which  lay 
deep  down  in  his  simple  heart. 

It  was  not,  perhaps,  the  convincing  letter  of  a  deep 
thinker.  It  was  not  a  letter  full  of  the  refinement  of  logical 
argument.  He  wrote  just  as  he  thought,  and  felt,  and  saw, 
with  a  mind  tinged  by  the  dark  hues  of  his  own  sufferings  and 
the  sufferings  of  others. 

He  told  her,  simple  creature  that  he  was,  of  all  his  love 
for  her.  He  told  her  of  the  aching  heart  which  this  definite 
p-arting  left  him  with,  and,  in  the  same  breath  almost,  he 
told  her  that  he  regarded  it  as  his  sacred  duty  to  shield  her 
from  contamination  with  a  disgrace  such  as  his.  He  forgot 
that  where  a  real  woman's  love  is  concerned,  duty,  and  per- 
haps any  other  scruple  is  willingly  flung  aside. 

His  simplicity  carried  him  into  deeper  water,  for  he  wrote 
long  and  ardently  of  his  own  future,  a  future  conceived,  and 
to  be  founded  upon  all  he  had  seen  and  experienced  in  prison. 
Again  he  forgot  the  wide  mind  of  the  girl  he  was  writing  to, 
and  blindly  believed  that  the  sincerity  and  honesty  of  his 
motives  must  appeal  to  her. 

It  was  altogether  a  headlong  sort  of  letter.    He  wrote  as 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

he  thought  and  felt,  and  scarcely  paused  for  a  word  or 
phrase.  The  gist  of  it  was  a  yearning  for  a  sort  of  sublime 
socialism.  He  could  not  longer  bear  the  thought  of  self- 
seeking.  He  had  seen  so  much  of  the  disastrous  results  of 
it  that  he  felt  and  knew  that  the  whole  process  of  it  was 
utterly  wrong.  The  prisons  were  filled  with  its  results. 

Those  things,  he  said,  had  started  his  train  of  thought, 
and,  with  each  passing  day,  his  eyes  had  become  more  fully 
opened. 

All  the  old  ambitions,  he  told  her,  had  been  rooted  out  of 
him  for  ever.  They  were  the  natural  impulses  of  a  heart  and 
mind  all  untutored,  and  far  too  immature  for  the  real  un- 
derstanding of  life.  He  had  desired  wealth  and  place  in  the 
world,  and  it  had  seemed  good  to  him  to  so  desire.  Nor  was 
it  to  be  wondered  at.  Such  desires  had  been  inspired  by 
honest  motives,  if,  perhaps,  selfish.  They  were  just  the  first 
teachings  of  life  until — it  presented  the  reverse  side  of  the 
picture. 

He  had  been  shown  the  reverse  of  the  picture,  and  it  had 
come  in  time.  For  twelve  months  he  had  gazed  upon  it  and 
learned  its  lessons.  For  twelve  months  he  had  groped  amid 
the  cobwebs  of  life  and  sought  among  the  darkened  corners. 
That  which  he  had  discovered  there  had  plainly  shown  him 
that,  for  him,  past  and  future  ambitions  were  divided  by  a 
gulf  that  could  never  be  bridged  again.  In  future  his  life 
would  be  cast  on  the  side  of  the  helpless  and  struggling,  on 
the  side  of  the  oppressed,  and  those  who  were  less  endowed 
for  the  battle  of  life. 

The  battle  of  life?  There  should  be  no  battle.  There 
never  was  a  battle  intended.  Why  should  there  be?  Was 
there  not  more  than  enough  to  go  round?  It  was  only  be- 
cause the  laws  of  man  permitted  accumulations  to  the  indi- 
vidual and  so  reduced  more  than  half  the  world  to  a  position 
bordering  on  starvation,  a  condition  which  lay  at  the  very 
root  of  all  crime.  The  old  belief  in  the  survival  of  the  fittest 
was  a  dead  one.  It  applied  to  simple  physical  conditions, 
not  to  the  right  to  enjoy  a  fair  share  of  those  blessings  a 
beneficent  Creator  had  provided  for  the  benefit  of  all.  Think 
of  it,  he  appealed,  think  of  the  king  of  beasts  cornering  all 
the  food  upon  which  his  species  depended  to  support  life. 
Picture  one  proud  brute  standing  over  a  hoard  of  rotting 


ON    THE    RAILROAD 

flesh,  flourishing  his  tail  and  snarling  defiance  at  a  crowd 
of  starving  creatures  of  his  own  kind.  Would  they  permit 
it?  Would  they  leave  him  in  possession?  No,  they  would 
set  upon  him  in  their  numbers,  and,  in  desperation,  they 
would  tear  him  limb  from  limb. 

Brotherhood  and  Equality !  That  was  to  be  the  keynote 
of  his  future.  Henceforth  all  his  power,  all  his  heart  should 
be  flung  into  the  only  cause  that  could  make  the  world 
endurable. 

So  he  wrote  to  this  girl  of  more  than  common  wisdom,  and 
he  told  himself  she  would  understand.  He  told  himself  that 
though  their  lives  could  never  come  together  again,  at  least 
he  would  possess  her  sympathy. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Frank's  letter  was  folded 
in  its  cheap  envelope  and  addressed.  But  its  writing  had 
done  him  good.  It  had  been  inspired  by  a  big  heart,  if  little 
wisdom,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  taken  his  first  step  upon  the 
new  road  opening  out  before  him. 

There  were  still  stragglers  in  the  office  when  he  finally  re- 
tired to  his  cubicle.  Some  were  sleepily  drunk,  after  an  even- 
ing spent  in  "cadging"  drinks  among  the  low-class  saloons  in 
the  neighborhood.  Some  were  merely  utterly  weary  with  a 
long  day  of  vain  searching  for  some  means  of  livelihood.  All 
were  unkempt  and  tattered,  and  most  of  them  dirty. 

These  were  some  of  the  poor  creatures  belonging  to  the 
ranks  of  those,  who,  in  his  lofty  ideals  of  the  work  that  lay 
before  him,  Frank  hoped  to  range  himself  on  the  side  of.  In 
his  youthful  blindness  he  failed  utterly  to  recognize  the 
workings  of  the  definite  laws  of  compensation.  He  missed 
entirely  the  most  glaring  fact  of  life.  It  passed  him  by  that 
the  majority  of  these  were  able-bodied  men  who  had  wilfully 
thrown  away  the  chances  which  life  never  fails  to  offer,  for 
the  indulgence  of  those  selfish  passions  which  in  his  heart  he 
abhorred. 

That  night  he  slept  the  fitful  sleep  of  a  man  unusued  to  his 
surroundings,  but  he  was  sufficiently  refreshed  when  the  hour 
appointed  for  arising  in  such  places  arrived.  He  turned 
out  quite  ready  to  face  all  that  the  day  might  bring  forth. 
He  knew  that  he  must  endure  many  trials  of  patience  and 
feelings.  But  he  intended  to  face  them  with  a  brave  heart. 

Ten  cents  was  all  he  allowed  himself  for  his  breakfast. 
19 


274  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

He  required  only  sufficient  to  sustain  life,  nor  did  he  obtain 
more  for  the  money.  Then  he  made  his  way  to  the  railroad 
depot,  forcing  himself  to  a  blindness  for  the  attention  his 
appearance  attracted.  Here  he  made  inquiries  as  to  the 
train,  and  booked  his  passage.  The  train  for  Toronto  left 
just  before  noon,  so  he  purchased  a  newspaper  and  sat  down 
in  the  waiting-hall.  He  intended  to  pass  the  time  scanning 
the  advertisements,  that  he  might  learn  the  best  means  of 
obtaining  employment  when  he  arrived  at  his  destination. 

The  train  was  "on  time,"  and,  in  due  course,  Frank 
boarded  it.  The  car  he  selected  was  fairly  empty.  At  the 
far  end  of  it  a  party  of  people,  evidently  a  family  party,  oc- 
cupied several  seats.  For  the  rest  five  or  six  men  and  two 
women  were  scattered  about  its  length. 

He  took  his  place  in  the  rear  seat  of  the  coach,  feeling 
that  it  was  preferable  to  have  no  inquisitive  eyes  behind  him. 
Those  who  displayed  marked  attention  from  in  front  he  felt 
confident  of  being  able  to  deal  with.  But  he  reckoned  with- 
out his  host. 

The  first  part  of  his  journey  was  quite  uneventful.  But 
at  the  first  important  town  at  which  the  train  stopped  sev- 
eral passengers  boarded  the  car.  Among  them  was  a  man 
with  closely  trimmed  iron  gray  hair,  and  quick,  searching 
eyes  that  closely  scanned  the  faces  of  each  person  in  the  car. 

His  stare  was  not  wholly  rude.  It  was  the  searching 
glance  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to  studying  his  fellows, 
who  never  fails  to  do  so  at  any  opportunity.  He  took  a 
corner  seat  just  across  the  aisle  of  the  car,  and  on  the  level 
immediately  in  front  of  Frank.  He  sat  turned  so  that  the 
whole  view  of  the  car  came  within  his  focus.  Nor  was  it  a 
matter  of  more  than  moments  before  Frank's  cropped  head 
came  under  his  observation. 

Frank  felt  that  this  was  so,  although  he  was  studiously 
intent  upon  his  paper,  and,  as  the  fixed  contemplation  re- 
mained, he  chafed  under  it.  For  some  time  he  endured  it, 
hoping  that,  the  man's  curiosity  satisfied,  he  would  turn 
away.  But  nothing  of  the  sort  happened.  The  stranger's 
interest  became  riveted. 

Frank  felt  himself  grow  hot  with  resentment.  He  deter- 
mined to  put  an  end  to  it  by  the  simple  process  of  staring 
the  man  out  of  countenance.  To  this  end  he  looked  up 


ON    THE    RAILROAD  275 

sharply,  and  with  anything  but  a  friendly  expression  in  his 
cold  eyes.  As  their  eyes  met  there  was  something  like  a  de- 
liberate challenge  in  the  exchange.  The  man  made  no  at- 
tempt to  withdraw  his  gaze,  and  Frank  found  himself  looking 
into  a  clean-shaven,  keen,  determined  face,  lit  by  a  pair  of 
hard,  satirical  eyes. 

Promptly  the  position  became  more  than  intolerable,  and 
Frank  was  driven  to  a  very  natural  verbal  protest.  He 
sprang  from  his  seat  and  crossed  the  aisle.  Leaning  across 
the  back  of  the  stranger's  seat  he  voiced  his  annoyance  de- 
liberately and  coldly. 

"It  seems  to  me  you'll  probably  know  me  when  you  see  me 
again,"  he  said,  with  angry  sarcasm. 

The  stranger  smiled  amiably. 

"Just  depends  when  I  meet  you,"  he  retorted,  with  a 
meaning  glance  at  the  close-cropped  hair  displayed  under  the 
brim  of  Frank's  hat. 

A  sudden  anger  lit  the  boy's  eyes  at  the  taunt,  and  a  vio- 
lent protest  leaped  to  his  lips.  But  the  stranger  anticipated 
him. 

"Say,"  he  drawled,  "sit  right  down — here.  I  wasn't 
meaning  offence.  What  got  me  looking  was  you're  so  like — 
an  old  friend  of  mine.  You  brought  the  other  on  yourself. 
Won't  you  sit — right  down?" 

The  stranger's  manner  was  so  disarmingly  cordial  that 
Frank's  heat  began  to  die  down.  Still,  he  had  no  intention 
of  accepting  the  invitation. 

"Maybe  you  didn't  intend  rudeness,  but  that  isn't  the 
point,"  he  said  deliberately.  "I'm  not  the  man  to  stand  rude- 
ness from — anybody." 

"Sure,"  said  the  other  calmly.  "Guess  that's  how  we 
all  feel.  Say,  it's  the  queerest  thing.  Guess  you're  'bout 
twenty  or  so.  Just  about  his  age.  You're  the  dead  image  of 
— my  friend,  when  he  was  your  age.  You  got  blue  eyes  and 
his  were  gray.  It's  the  only  spark  of  difference.  Going  up 
Toronto  way?" 

Frank  nodded.  He  somehow  felt  he  could  do  no  less,  with- 
out returning  in  cold  silence  to  his  seat.  Somehow  he  felt 
that  to  do  so  would  be  churlish,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  aggrieved. 

The  keen-eyed  stranger  recognized  his  advantage  in  ob- 


276  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

taining  the  admission,  and  promptly  followed  it  up.  He  in- 
dicated the  seat  beside  him  and  persisted  in  his  invitation. 

"Best  sit,"  he  said,  with  a  pleasant  smile.  "It's  quite  a 
long  piece  to  Toronto.  I'd  a  heap  like  to  yarn  with  you." 

The  stranger  was  altogether  too  much  for  the  simplicity 
of  the  other.  Besides,  there  was  nothing  but  amiability  in 
his  manner.  Perhaps  after  all  he  had  been  hasty,  Frank 
thought.  He  was  so  sensitive  about  the  brand  of  the  prison 
he  carried  about  with  him.  The  shame  of  it  was  always  with 
him.  Anyway,  it  could  not  hurt  talking  to  this  man,  and  it 
would  help  pass  the  time.  'He  allowed  himself  to  be  per- 
suaded, and  half  reluctantly  dropped  into  the  seat. 

"Say,  that's  friendly,"  commented  the  stranger,  with  a 
sharp,  sidelong  glance  at  Frank's  strong  profile.  "There's 
just  one  thing  I  got  set  against  this  country.  It's  a  hell  of 
a  ways  between  cities.  Maybe  you  don't  get  that  across  in 
England." 

"I've  never  been  in  England,"  Frank  admitted. 

"Ah.     Maybe  States?" 

Frank  nodded.     And  the  man  laughed. 

"The  land  of  Freedom,  Graft  and  Finance." 

"Yes,  it's  an  odd  mixture,"  agreed  Frank.  "It's  also  a 
land  of  slavery.  A  queer  contradiction,  but  nevertheless 
true.  Three  parts  of  the  people  are  held  in  bondage  to  the 
other  fourth,  who  represent  Capital." 

The  stranger  stirred  and  settled  himself.  He  gazed 
keenly  into  his  companion's  face. 

"Guess  you  were  one  of  the  'three  parts,*  and  found  the 
fourth — oppressive." 

Frank  shifted  his  position  uneasily.  Then  with  a  sudden 
curious  abandonment  he  spread  his  hands  out. 

"Say,"  he  cried,  his  cheeks  flushing,  "I  don't  know  what 
makes  me  talk  to  you — a  stranger.  You're  the  first  man 
who  has  wanted  to  speak  to  me  since — I  came  out.  I  know 
you've  spotted  my  cropped  head,  so  what's  the  use  of  trying 
to  deny  it.  Yes,  I've  found  it,  I  suppose.  But  not  in  the 
States.  Just  right  here  in  Canada,  where  things  are  much 
the  same.  I've  just  come  out  of  Alston  Penitentiary.  I 
was  sentenced  wrongfully  to  five  years,  and  now,  at  the  end 
of  one  of  them  they've  found  out  my  innocence,  and  given 
me  a  free  pardon — for  not  being  guilty." 


ON    THE    RAILROAD  277 

"A  free  pardon?"  The  stranger's  eyes  were  reading  his 
companion  through  and  through. 

"Yes,  a  free  pardon  for  an  offence  I  never  com- 
mitted," Frank  went  on,  with  bitter  indignation.  "It 
doesn't  matter  how  or  where  it  happened.  But  the  whole 
thing  was  worked.  I  mean  my  trial,  by  a  man  of — well, 
one  of  the  millionaire  class — one  of  the  other  'fourth.' 
Perhaps  you'll  understand  now  why  I  hated  you  staring 
at  me." 

The  stranger  nodded  sympathetically. 

"Guess  I'm  real  sorry,"  he  said. 

Frank  shook  his  head.  4 

"It  doesn't  matter — now.      It's  done  me  good  to  tell— 
somebody.      See."     He  drew  out  his  prison  discharge  and 
showed  it  to  his   companion,  who   read   it   over   carefully. 
"You  don't  need  to  take  my  word.     That'll  tell  you  all  you 
need  to  know." 

The  other  looked  up. 

"Frank  Smith?"  he  said. 

"Frank  Burton's  my  name.  I  used  the  other  so  as  to 
keep  it  from  folks  I  didn't  want  to  know  about  it." 

"I  see."  The  stranger  was  studying  the  clean  cut  of  the 
ingenuous  face  beside  him.  "And  now  they'll  know — I 
s'pose  ?" 

"They've  found  out  for  themselves."  The  youngster's 
blue  eyes  were  shadowed  in  gloom. 

"Ah!"  The  other  glanced  out  of  the  window  a  moment. 
"And — what  are  you  going  to  do?  Go  back  to — 'em?" 

The  gloomy  blue  eyes  were  turned  away.  Frank  was 
staring  introspectively  down  the  aisle  of  the  car. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'm  not  going  back  to  them." 
Then  he  sat  up  and  looked  at  his  companion  earnestly.  "To 
go  back  would  mean  to  become  one  of  the  other  'fourth.' 
The  ranks  of  the  submerged  three-quarters  is  my  future. 
I've  learned  a  lot  in  the  last  twelve  months.  Say,  have  you 
ever  been  inside  a  prison. 

The  stranger's  sharp  eyes  lit  with  a  brief  smile.  It  was 
not  a  really  pleasant  face  with  its  narrow  eyes ;  nor  was  it  a 
pleasant  smile.  He  shook  his  head. 

"I've  seen  'em — from  the  outside.  I'm  not  yearning  to 
get  a  peek  inside." 


278  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Frank  looked  disappointed. 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  said.  "You  see,  you  won't  understand 
just  how  I  see  things.  Do  you  know,  the  prisons  are  just 
full  to  overflowing  with  folks  who'd  be  free  to-day — if  it 
weren't  for  the  existence  of  that  other  'fourth'  ?  Oh,  I  don't 
mean  they've  been  deliberately  put  away  by  the  wealthy  folk. 
I'm  just  learning  that  one  of  the  greatest  causes  of  all  crime, 
is  that,  under  present  conditions,  there  isn't  enough  to  go 
round." 

The  stranger's  smile  had  become  more  encouraging. 

"And  the  cure  for  it  is — Socialism,  eh? 

Frank  started.     Then  he  nodded. 

"I  suppose  that's  what  folks  would  call  it.  I  call  it 
Brotherhood  and  Equality." 

"Go  a  step  further,"  said  the  other.  "It's  that  'fourth,' 
we  are  talking  about,  who  get  rich  and  live  on  the  efforts  of 
the  worker  whom  they  sweat  and  crush  into  the  very  ground 
over  which  their  automobiles  roll.  Put  it  in  plain  words, 
man.  It  is  the  worker,  the  poor  wretch  that  just  manages  to 
scrape  existence  by  grinding  toil,  who  feeds  the  rich  and 
makes  possible  the  degrading  luxury  of  their  lives.  And 
when  the  first  hope  of  youth  gets  swamped  by  the  grind  of 
their  labors,  and  they  see  their  equally  wretched  wives  and 
hungry  children  going  without  the  barest  necessities  of  life, 
and  before  them  lies  nothing  but  the  dreary  road  of  incessant 
toil,  with  no  earthly  chance  of  bettering  themselves,  then 
they  grow  desperate,  and  help  to  fill  those  hells  of  despair 
we  call  penitentiaries.  That's  what  you've  realized  in 
prison." 

Frank  stared  at  the  man.  The  force  of  his  manner  was 
such  as  to  carry  absolute  conviction  of  his  personal  feelings 
upon  this  matter,  feelings  which  also  lay  so  deep  in  the  heart 
of  the  ex-convict.  He  wondered  at  the  strange  chance  which 
had  brought  him  into  contact  with  a  man  who  shared  these 
new  feelings  and  beliefs  of  his.  Could  it  be ? 

"You  believe  that  way,  too?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

At  that  moment  a  waiter  from  the  dining-car  entered  the 
coach. 

"First  call  for  dinner !  First  call  for  dinner !"  He  passed 
down  the  car  issuing  his  invitation  in  high,  nasal  tones. 

The  stranger  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  and,  as  the 


A    YOUNG    GIRL'S    PURPOSE  279 

waiter  passed,  he  produced  his  card,  and  held  it  out  toward 
his  companion. 

"Say,"  he  observed,  lapsing  once  more  into  his  more 
genial  manner.  "Guess  you'll  be  yearning  for  a  billet  when 
you  get  along  to  Toronto.  Just  keep  that  by  you,  and  when 
you're  needing  one,  come  and  look  me  up.  We're  always 
needing  recruits  for  our  work.  I'll  take  it  kindly  if  you'll 
eat  with  me  right  now." 

Frank  took  the  card  and  read  the  name  on  it — 

MR.  AUSTIN  LEYBURN, 

2012    MORDATTNT    AvENTTE,    TORONTO,    OKT. 

President  of  the  Agricultural  Helpers'  Society  of  Canada. 

Gen.  Sec.  Bonded  Railroaders. 
Asst.-Gen.  Sec.  Associated  Freighters'  Combine. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  YOUNG  GIRL'S  PURPOSE 

WITH  her  determined  little  chin  thrust  into  the  palm  of 
her  hand,  and  her  elbow  propped  upon  the  window  ledge  of 
the  railroad  car,  Phyllis  made  a  delightful  picture  of  country 
simplicity.  She  was  dressed  in  a  plain  gown  of  some  soft, 
dark  blue  material,  and  flung  back  from  her  shoulders  was 
a  heavy,  plaid-lined  cape,  a  garment  she  had  borrowed  for 
the  journey.  On  the  seat  in  front  of  her  was  a  well-worn  suit 
case  of  cheap  compressed  cane.  It  had  evidently  seen  much 
service,  though  such  service  could  hardly  have  been  given  in 
the  city  world  toward  which  she  was  speeding.  Reposing  on 
top  of  this  was  her  black  felt  hat.  Here,  again,  her  western 
farm  upbringing  was  evidenced.  It  was  a  mixture,  con- 
trived out  of  a  man's  prairie  hat  into  something  of  that  mod- 
ern product  affected  by  young  girls,  beneath  which  its 
wearer  reveals  little  but  nose  and  chin.  It  was  Phyllis's 
"best,"  and  she  rather  liked  it. 

But  she  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  country  brand  she 
bore.  She  was  at  all  times  unconscious  of  herself,  in  spite 


280  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

of  her  youth.  Yet  she  attracted  a  good  deal  of  notice  among 
her  fellow-passengers. 

A  commercial  drummer  had  vainly  striven  for  hours  to 
attract  her  attention,  his  florid  face  set  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  wreath  itself  into  an  engaging  smile,  should  she 
chance  to  glance  in  his  direction. 

Then,  too,  a  youth,  in  the  company  of  an  elderly  female 
relative,  had  gone  through  a  severe  process  of  neck  wringing, 
several  seats  in  front  of  her,  in  the  vain  hope  that  her  in- 
terest in  the  absurd  fields  of  wheat  through  which  they  were 
passing  might  abate  in  his  favor. 

Besides  these  it  was  a  curious  fact  that  this  particular  car 
demanded  so  much  attention  from  the  train  crew.  One 
official  bore  down  on  her,  and,  with  unusual  courtesy,  asked 
her  if  he  should  open  a  window  near  her  to  cool  the  air. 
Having  achieved  his  purpose  of  receiving  smiling  thanks,  he 
added  a  few  remarks,  passed  on,  and  another  came  along 
and  threatened  pleasantly  to  close  it,  as  he  was  sure  she  was 
in  a  draught.  A  third  brought  her  a  pillow  and  refused  to 
take  money  for  it,  the  significance  of  which  left  her  wholly 
unconscious. 

But  the  guard.  Well,  the  guard  seemed  to  have  nothing 
in  the  world  to  do  but  examine  her  ticket.  The  railroad 
officials  certainly  did  their  very  best  for  her. 

Through  it  all,  the  girl's  whole  interest  seemed  to  lay  in  the 
wonderful  cloth  of  gold  spread  over  the  world  through  which 
they  were  passing.  That  and  its  trimmings  in  the  shape  of 
farm  houses,  small  settlements,  townships  just  starting,  ver- 
dant bluffs  and  gleaming  rivers,  all  of  which  glided  swiftly 
by,  a  delightful  panorama  before  her  wondering  eyes,  as  the 
transcontinental  mail  swept  across  the  prairie  lands  upon  its 
east-bound  journey. 

It  was  all  fresh  to  her,  but  none  of  it  was  new.  She  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  corner  of  this  very  wheat  world,  so 
she  knew  it  all.  Sometimes  it  was  grander  and  looked  more 
prosperous,  sometimes  it  was  smaller  and  poorer.  But  the 
method  of  it  was  always  the  same. 

Still,  she  was  traveling  abroad  for  the  first  time  in  her 
young  life,  and  she  wanted  to  see  everything  there  was  to  see. 
Thus,  she  had  traveled  for  more  than  two  whole  days,  nor 
had  she  yet  exhausted  the  resources  of  Canada's  great 


A    YOUNG    GIRL'S    PURPOSE 

granary.  Indian  Head,  Moose  jaw,  Regina,  Moosemin, 
Brandon,  all  these  places,  miles  and  miles  apart,  had  van- 
ished into  the  dim  distance  behind  her,  but  still  the  cloth  of 
golden  wheat  remained,  as  she  knew  it  would  remain  until 
Winnipeg  was  reached. 

Funds  had  not  permitted  her  the  luxury  of  a  "sleeper,"  so 
she  had  faced  the  discomforts  of  long  days  and  longer  nights 
in  the  ordinary  day  car.  But  with  her  heart  set  upon  a 
definite  purpose  such  things  were  no  real  hardships  to 
Phyllis.  Just  now  her  one  desire  in  life  was  to  reach  Winni- 
peg, so  nothing  else  mattered. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  the  conductor  of  the  train  entered 
the  car  for  perhaps  the  tenth  time  that  morning.  Phyllis 
saw  him  moving  down  the  aisle,  and,  from  force  of  habit, 
got  her  ticket  ready.  But  the  amiable  man  spared  her  this 
time.  He  hurried  along  toward  her,  and,  with  the  sigh  of 
an  overworked  man,  dropped  into  the  seat  beside  her  suit 
case. 

"Guess  you'll  soon  be  in  Winnipeg,  now,'*  he  observed, 
having  learned  her  anxiety  to  reach  her  destination  some 
twenty  or  thirty  visits  to  her  before. 

Phyllis  smiled,  and  her  whole  face  lit  up.  The  conductor 
grinned  his  pleasure  at  the  sight. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  the  girl  sighed.  "Still,  I've  had  a  real 
pleasant  journey,"  she  added  quickly.  "You  folks  have  been 
very  kind  to  me." 

The  man's  delight  was  written  all  over  his  face. 

"Why,  that's  good  of  you.  But  'tain't  just  nothin'.  Gals 
travelin'  on  their  lonesome,  it  ain't  all  pie  for  'em.  We  just 
like  to  do  our  best — when  they  ain't  on  the  grouch." 

Phyllis  had  abandoned  her  study  of  the  view. 

"I  haven't  been  a  grouch,  have  I  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Never  in  your  life.  Say — you  couldn't  grouch.  'Tain't 
your  nature." 

Phyllis  became  aware  of  the  "drummer."  His  grin  was 
in  full  blast.  But  she  quickly  ignored  him. 

"I  s'pose  you  know  Winnipeg  well?"  she  hazarded  to  her 
companion,  with  some  eagerness. 

"Live  there,"  the  man  replied,  comprehensively. 

"Ah,  I'm  glad.     Maybe  you  know  Grand  Avenue?" 

The  man's  eyes  opened  wide. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Sure  I  know  Grand  Avenoo.  That's  where  the  big  fellers 
live.  All  small  houses.  Sort  o'  Fifth  Avenoo,  Noo  York." 
Then  he  grinned.  "Say,  you  ain't  figurin'  on  a  hotel  in 
Grand  Avenoo?" 

Phyllis  flushed. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  disclaimed  hurriedly.  "I  just  want  to  get 
there  to — to  see  a  lady  who  lives  there." 

The  conductor  nodded  his  understanding. 

"Sure,"  he  said.     "Service.     Domestic." 

Phyllis's  flush  deepened. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  cried.     "I'm — I'm  just  on  a  visit." 

The  conductor  realized  his  mistake,  and  tried  to  glide  over 
the  fence. 

"If  you  were  to  tell  me  the  part  of  Grand  Avenoo  you're 
needing,  maybe  I  could  give  you  the  right  surface  car  to 
take." 

"That  would  be  very  kind,"  Phyllis  said  earnestly.  Then 
her  dark  brows  drew  together  perplexedly.  "It's  rather 
difficult,"  she  went  on.  "You  see,  I  don't  really  know  just 
whereabouts  Mrs.  Hendrie  lives." 

"Mrs.  Hendrie,  d'you  say,  miss?  Mrs.  Alexander 
Hendrie?" 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  the  lady,"  Phyllis  cried  eagerly.  "Do 
you  know  where  her  house  is?" 

"Gee!" 

"What  did  you  say?     I  didn't " 

"Beg  pardon,  miss — I — I  just  said  'Gee!'"  The  man 
rose  from  his  seat  rather  hurriedly.  "You  see,  I  didn't 
just  figure  you  were  goin'  to  Mrs.  Alexander  Hendrie.  You 
see,  Mr.  Hendrie  is  just  about  the  biggest  man  in  the  coun- 
try, and — well " 

Phyllis  laughed. 

"And  it  seemed  queer  me  going  to  see  them.  Of  course 
it  does,"  she  went  on,  to  help  the  man's  confusion.  "But 
if  you'll  tell  me  best  how  to  find  Grand  Avenue,  why,  you'll 
be  doing  me  a  real  kindness,  just  one  more." 

The  girl's  tact  had  prompt  effect. 

"I'll  sure  be  most  pleased,  miss,"  the  conductor  said,  with 
some  emphasis  on  the  last  word.  "You  just  go  right  out 
of  the  booking  hall  at  the  depot,  and  get  on  to  the  first  Main 
Street  car  you  see.  It'll  take  you  along  up  to  Grand.  Just 


A    YOUNG    GIRL'S    PURPOSE 

give  word  to  the  ticket  man,  an'  he'll  see  you  get  off  right. 
We'll  be  in  in  less  than  two  hours.  We're  plumb  on  time." 
He  moved  away  quickly,  and  Phyllis  vaguely  understood 
that  his  going  had  something  to  do  with  the  fact  that  she 
was  going  to  see  the  wife  of  one  of  the  biggest  men  in  the 
country.  But  she  quite  missed  the  necessity  for  the  rail- 
roader's exchange  of  attitude. 

Grand  Avenue  was  bathed  in  sunlight  when  Phyllis  stepped 
off  the  car  and  looked  about  her.  Automobiles  and  pair- 
horse  carriages  sped  upon  their  dazzling  ways  down  the 
great  wide  road  with  a  speed  and  frequency  that,  for  some 
moments,  left  the  country  girl  almost  dazed.  Her  unac- 
customed eyes  were  wide  and  wondering,  and  she  clung  to 
her  cane  suit  case  as  though  for  support  against  the  over- 
whelming tide  of  traffic. 

After  a  while,  either  the  stream  slackened,  or  her  nerves 
became  more  accustomed,  for  she  made  a  dash  for  the  side- 
walk, and  reached  safety  once  more.  Then  further  dismay 
attacked  her.  She  gazed  along  at  the  great  detached  man- 
sions, which  lined  the  avenue,  and  the  sight  gave  her  under- 
standing of  the  train  conductor's  suggestion  that  she  was 
about  to  enter  domestic  service.  It  was  in  one  of  these 
splendid  palaces,  she  thought,  that  Mrs.  Hendrie  lived,  and 
probably  one  of  the  biggest.  For  a  moment  she  looked 
down  at  her  suit  case  as  though  she  hated  it. 

Her  weakness,  however,  was  quickly  passed.  She  remem- 
bered the  object  of  her  visit,  and  clenched  her  small  white 
teeth.  All  she  cared  for  in  the  world  was  at  stake  in  this 
desperate  visit,  and  nothing  should  daunt  her. 

A  large  policeman  was  passing.  Noting  the  girl's  evident 
hesitation  he  slackened  his  pace.  He  was  a  genially  rubi- 
cund specimen  of  the  force,  and  inspired  confidence.  Phyllis 
promptly  set  her  suit  case  down,  drew  a  letter  from  her 
pocket-book  and  went  up  to  him. 

"Will  you  tell  me  in  which  direction  that  number  is,  sir?" 
she  inquired,  awed  by  the  man's  authority  as  she  held  up 
the  address  for  his  inspection. 

The  officer's  bulging  eyes  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot. 
That  "sir"  had  tickled  his  vanity,  and  he  approved  of  her. 

"One  thousand  and  one?"  he  said.     "Why,  that's  Alex- 


884  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

ander  Hcndrie's  house.  Right  here  behind  you — er — miss. 
That's  Mr.  Hendrie's  house." 

Phyllis  thanked  him  warmly.  Then  she  went  back  to 
her  suit  case,  picked  it  up,  and  made  for  the  house  with  a 
rapidly  beating  heart.  It  was  almost  as  if  everything  had 
been  made  especially  easy  for  her,  and,  in  spite  of  her  grow- 
ing nervousness,  she  was  very  thankful. 

The  house  was  well  back  from  the  road.  It  was  ap- 
proached by  a  short,  unenclosed  carriage  sweep,  lined  on 
each  side  by  smooth  turf,  dotted  with  shrubs  and  young 
trees.  The  air  of  wealth  was  conveyed  in  the  splendidly 
kept  condition  of  everything  rather  than  any  ostentatious 
display.  The  house  itself  was  a  modern  production  of 
decorative  architecture,  built  of  massive,  beautifully  cut 
gray  stone.  The  entrance  door  was  beneath  a  glass  and 
wrought-iron  shelter,  which  stretched  out  across  the  drive 
and  was  supported  on  massive  wrought-iron  columns  of 
exquisite  design. 

It  was  not  without  many  heart  quakings  that  Phyllis 
ascended  the  white  marble  steps  and  pressed  the  great  but- 
ton of  the  electric  bell.  Nor  were  these  lessened  when  the 
door  was  opened  with  magical  abruptness,  and  she  found 
herself  gazing  up  at  the  liveried  footman  in  wonder  and 
dismay. 

The  man's  cold  survey  of  her  was  disheartening.  Plainly 
as  looks  could  speak,  he  regarded  her  visit  as  an  impertinent 
intrusion,  while  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

It  was  a  critical  moment,  and  Phyllis  knew  it.  The  sit- 
uation demanded  all  her  courage.  Assuming  a  decision 
which  quite  belied  her  real  feelings,  she  endeavored  to  over- 
awe the  man,  quite  forgetful  of  the  strange  hat  and  stranger 
costume  she  was  arrayed  in;  to  say  nothing  of  the  deplor- 
able suit  case. 

"I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Hendrie,"  she  demanded  shortly. 

The  man's  reply  was  slow  in  coming.  He  devoured  her 
with  eyes  which  plainly  conveyed  a  definite  and  contemp- 
tuous refusal. 

"Can't  be  done,"  he  said  at  last,  and  prepared  to  close 
the  door. 

But  Phyllis  had  not  traveled  all  these  hundreds  of  miles 
to  be  defeated  by  a  mere  footman. 


A    YOUNG    GIRL'S    PURPOSE  285 

"Oh,  yes,  it  can,"  she  declared  tartly.  "And  you'll  do 
best  if  you  remember  that  you're  speaking  to  a  lady.  Mrs. 
Hendrie  is  expecting  me.  Please  to  tell  her  Miss  Phyllis 
Raysun  is  here — from  Gleber." 

The  absurd  dignity  of  this  quaint  figure  was  not  without 
its  effect.  The  man's  manner  underwent  a  slight  change, 
but  he  still  remained  barring  the  way.  At  his  sign  a  boy 
in  uniform  stepped  forward  from  some  dark  corner  where 
he  had  been  lurking  unseen  by  Phyllis.  He  stood  ready 
with  a  silver  tray  in  his  hand. 

"Inquire  if  Mrs.  Hendrie  is  at  home,"  said  the  footman 
loftily.  "If  she  is,  will  she  receive  Miss — er — Phyllis  Ray- 
sun?" 

The  boy  remained  with  his  tray  held  out.  Phyllis  was  at 
a  loss.  Then  she  nodded. 

"Yes.  That's  right,"  she  said,  failing  to  understand  the 
silent  demand  for  a  card. 

With  a  smile,  which  somehow  added  further  to  the  girl's 
angry  feelings,  the  youth  hurried  away.  But  the  man  still 
kept  her  waiting  on  the  step. 

Without  knowing  what  she  ought  to  have  expected, 
Phyllis  felt  that  she  was  being  treated  shamefully.  She 
knew  that  these  liveried  underlings  were  treating  her  as  if 
she  were  some  undesirable  tramp.  It  was  quite  infuriating. 
But  with  so  much  at  stake  she  felt  it  safest  not  to  display 
too  much  resentment,  so  she  choked  back  her  indignation  and 
accepted  the  affront. 

Then  quite  suddenly  a  wonderful  change  came  upon  the 
scene.  A  change  that  was  evidently  utterly  unexpected  by 
the  churlish  man-servant. 

There  was  a  sound  of  rustling  skirts  hurrying  downstairs. 
Then  some  one  brushed  the  man  aside  and  seized  Phyllis's 
two  ungloved  hands,  one  of  which  still  held  the  deplorable 
suit  case. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  however  did  you  get  here?" 

It  was  Monica.  Then  she  turned  angrily  upon  the  dis- 
comforted footman  as  she  drew  the  girl  into  the  house. 

"How  dare  you  keep  this  lady  standing  out  on  the  door- 
step? How  dare  you?  It's  an  outrage.  It  is  an  outrage 
I  won't  permit  in  my  house.  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing." 


286  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Then  she  turned  upon  the  scared-faced  boy,  waiting  just 
behind  her. 

"Tell  the  housekeeper  I  wish  to  see  her  in  the  library 
in  an  hour's  time."  Then,  in  a  moment,  she  was  back 
again  to  Phyllis.  "Come  along,  dear.  Come  up  to  my 
room,  and  get  your  things  off.  Henson  will  see  to  your 
grip," 

But  Phyllis  clung  to  the  suit  case,  which  she  was  growing 
to  hate  more  and  more  every  moment.  She  was  sure  now 
that  it  had  had  something  to  do  with  the  rude  treatment 
she  had  been  subjected  to. 

"But  I — I  can  carry  it,  M — Mrs,  Hendrie,"  she  cried,  the 
inevitable  "mam"  nearly  slipping  out  in  spite  of  her  best 
efforts. 

Monica  laughed.  She  remembered  how  she,  herself,  had 
felt  once  upon  a  time  facing  an  army  of  servants. 

"Very  well,  dear,"  she  said  gently,  "but  come  along." 

She  took  the  bewildered  girl  by  the  arm,  and  hurried  her 
through  the  great  entrance  hall.  Then  up  the  wide  stair- 
case, and,  having  left  the  sharp-eared  servants  well  behind, 
opened  out  a  battery  of  eager  questions. 

"How  ever  did  you  get  here  all  by  yourself  from  that 
little  far-away  farm  of  yours?"  she  demanded.  "How — 
how  dared  you  attempt  such  a  thing,  my  dear?"  she  went 
on,  with  genuine  concern.  "You  shouldn't  have  done  it. 
You  really  shouldn't,  without  letting  me  know,  so  that  I 
could  have  arranged  for  your  comfort." 

They  had  reached  the  first  floor,  and  Monica's  arm  was 
about  the  girl's  supple  waist. 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  she  hurried  on,  pushing 
open  the  door  of  her  boudoir.  "Weren't  you  frightened 
to  death?  How — how  ever  did  you  manage  to  find  this 
house — you,  who've  never  been  away  from  your  prairie  home 
in  your  life?" 

"I — I  had  to  come,  mam,"  Phyllis  cried.  "I — I  hope 
you're  not  angry,  but  I  just  had  to  come.  I  got  a 
letter  from — from  Frank,  and  he  told  me  he  was  never 
coming  back  to  me,  and  was  going  to — to — enlist — or 
something,  in  the  army  of  workers  and  give  his  life  to 
bettering  their  lot,  and — and  a  lot  of  other  silly  non- 
sense like  that.  And — and  I  just  had  to  come  and 


A    YOUNG    GIRL'S    PURPOSE  287 

see  you  —  since  I  knew  that  —  that  you  loved  him, 
too." 

There  were  tears  crowding  the  girl's  beautiful,  appealing 
eyes  as  she  looked  up  into  Monica's  face. 

Monica  stooped  and  kissed  her  quite  suddenly.  Then  she 
unfastened  and  removed  the  unsightly  cape  and  took  the 
offending  suit  case  from  her.  She  laid  them  aside,  and  then 
strove  to  reassure  this  child,  who,  though  she  had  only  seen 
her  once  before  in  her  life,  and  only  knew  her  through  writ- 
ing to  her,  somehow  seemed  to  have  become  a  part  of  her 
life. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came  to  me,  Phyl,"  she  cried.  "There's 
so  much  to  say — so  much  for  us  both  to  think  of.  Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear,  my  heart  is  broken.  I  don't  know  what  to 
think,  or  what  to  do.  My  poor,  poor  boy." 

An  hour  passed.  The  housekeeper  waited  to  see  Mrs. 
Hendrie  in  the  library,  but  she  did  not  come.  Two  hours 
passed.  Monica  and  Phyllis  still  remained  together  in  the 
former's  room.  As  Monica  had  said,  there  was  much  for 
both  to  think  of.  Again  she  poured  out  the  dreadful  story 
of  Frank's  disaster.  She  was  thankful,  too,  for  the  girl's 
sympathetic  ears.  It  eased  her  own  feelings,  and  helped 
her  to  think  more  clearly,  which  she  had  not  been  able  to 
do  since  receiving  Frank's  curt  note  refusing  her  money. 
But  at  last  there  was  nothing  more  left  to  tell,  and  Monica 
broke  down,  weeping  over  the  havoc  she  felt  that  she  alone 
had  wrought. 

"Oh,  Phyl,  Phyl,"  she  cried  desperately.  "It  is  all  my 
doing;  all  through  my  wretched  selfishness.  You — even 
you  can't  blame  my  husband.  The  fault  was  mine  alone." 

Phyllis's  dark  eyes  were  hard  as  she  flung  in  her  denial. 

"But  I  do  blame  him,"  she  cried.  "Even  if  Frank  had 
been  guilty  it  was  a  wicked,  cruel  thing  to  do.  I  can't  help 
it  if  it  hurts  you,  Mrs.  Hendrie.  I  do  certainly  blame  your 
husband." 

Monica  shook  her  head. 

"He  was  in  a  fury  of  jealousy,  and  no  man  is  quite  sane 
under  such  circumstances."  Phyllis's  challenge  had  given 
Monica  the  firmness  of  decision,  which,  in  her  grief,  she  had 
utterly  lacked.  "I  am  to  blame.  I  can  see  it  all  now.  Had 


288  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

» 

I  never  lied  to  Frank  in  my  ridiculous  sense  of  duty  to  my 
dead  sister,  and  my  selfish  desire  to  marry  my  husband; 
had  I  never  told  the  boy  that  I  was  his  mother — this  would 
never  have  happened.  In  his  great  goodness  and  chivalry, 
the  poor  boy  sacrificed  himself  for  what  he  believed  was  my 
honor.  It — is — too  terrible.  Just  God,  what  a  punish- 
ment for  my  lies.  Never,  never,  never,  as  long  as  I  live, 
can  I  forgive  myself.  And  now?  Oh,  what  can  I  do? 
Whatever  can  we  do?" 

Monica's  tears  flowed  fast,  and  in  sympathy  for  the  suf- 
fering woman  Phyllis  wept,  too.  Her  anger,  her  resent- 
ment against  those  who  had  injured  her  love  were  powerless 
to  resist  the  appeal  of  this  woman's  grief.  However  she 
loved  Frank,  she  remembered  that  Monica  loved  him,  too. 
All  his  life  she  had  struggled  and  slaved  for  him. 

But  she  was  there  for  a  greater  purpose  than  to  help 
another  woman  in  her  suffering.  She  was  there  to  help 
the  man  she  loved.  More  than  that,  she  was  there  to  win 
him  back  to  herself,  to  that  happiness  she  believed  she  alone 
could  give  him.  She  knew  him  so  well.  She  felt  in  her 
simple  way  that  he  needed  her,  in  spite  of  his  long,  long 
letter  giving  her  back  her  promise,  and  full  of  his  unalterr 
able  resolve  to  put  his  past  and  all  that  belonged  to  it,  be- 
hind him  forever.  She  intended  to  pit  herself  against  his 
desperate  purpose.  She  was  determined  to  restore  the  old 
Frank  she  knew,  the  old  Frank  she  loved  better  than  her 
life. 

"What  can  you  do?"  she  cried,  a  glowing  light  of  strength 
and  love  shining  in  her  beautiful,  half-tearful  eyes.  "What 
can  we  do?  Why,  everything.  But  we're  not  going  to  do 
it  by  writing  letters,  mam.  You  love  him?  You?  And 
you  can  just  sit  at  home  right  here,  and  hand  him  words 
written  on  paper,  and  push  money  into  the  envelope,  money 
which  means  nothing  to  either  of  you,  when  he  comes  out 
of  the  prison  you  helped  to  send  him  to?  Oh,  mam,  mam, 
how  could  you?  Your  place  was  at  the  gates  of  Alston 
prison  as  it  was  mine,  if  I  had  known,  like  you  did.  It  was 
for  us  to  have  been  along  there,  ready  to  reach  out,  and — 
and  help  him.  What  can  we  do?  What  can  I  do?  I'll 
tell  you.  Oh,  I  know  it's  not  for  me  to  tell  you  things. 
Maybe  I'm  young  and  foolish.  Maybe  I  don't  know  much. 


IN    TORONTO  289 

* 

I'm  just  not  going  to  write  my  Frank  in  answer  to  his — his 
•nonsensical  stuff.  But  I  won't  take  back  my  promise  to 
be  his  wife..  I'm — I'm  going  to  marry  him — because  I 
know  he  wants  me,  and*  I  want  him.  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  going 
to  marry  a  man  who  gets  worrying  to  make  strikes  and 
things,  and  calls  it  helping  labor.  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
a  man  who's  always  making  trouble  in  the  world,  who  leaves 
kiddies  starving  for  what  he  calls  a  'principle,'  and  most 
folks  generally — miserable.  But  I'm  going  to  marry  my 
Frank,  and  I'm  going  right  on  to  Toronto  to  find  him — if  I 
have  to  walk  there." 

The  girl  finished  up  breathlessly.  All  her  love  and  cour- 
age were  shining  in  her  eyes.  Monica  had  been  held  spell- 
bound by  the  force  and  determination  underlying  every  un- 
considered  word  Phyllis  uttered,  and  now  she  sprang  from 
her  seat,  caught  in  the  rush  of  the  other's  enthu&iasm. 

"Oh  Fhyl,  Phyl,"  she  cried,  catching  the  girl  by  the 
shoulders,  and  looking  down  into  her  ardent  face.  "You 
brave,  brave  child.  I  never  thought.  I  could  never  have 
thought,  fool  that  I  am.  Yes,  yes,  we  will  go  to  him.  Not 
you  alone.  I  will  go,  too.  You  are  the  bravest,  wisest  child 
in  the  world,  and — I  love  you  for  it." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  TORONTO 

THE  street  cars  hummed  in  the  still  summer  air.  The 
sun  awnings  were  stretched  out  from  the  endless  array  of 
stores,  across  the  super-heated  sidewalk.  A  busy  life  per- 
spired beneath  them.  Toronto's  central  shopping  areas 
were  always  crowded  about  midday,  not  with  the  smart 
woman  shopper,  but  with  the  lunching  population  of  the 
commercial  houses. 

It  was  more  than  a  month  since  Frank's  memorable  jour- 
ney from  the  hopeless  precincts  of  Alston  to  one  of  Canada's 
gayest  cities ;  a  month  during  which  he  had  found  his  days 
far  easier  than  he  expected,  if  more  full  of  the  responsibili- 
ties of  life.  From  the  moment  of  his  meeting  with  Austin 
20 


890  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Leyburn  he  had  permitted  himself  a  looking  forward,  if  not 
with  anything  approaching  youthful  hope  and  confidence,  at 
least  to  a  life  full  of  that  work  which  his  understanding 
suggested  to  him  might  serve  to  deaden  bitter  memories,  and 
help  him  to  face  a  useful  future. 

His  new  aspirations,  his  new  convictions,  sprang  from  a 
simple,  impulsive  heart  rather  than  from  any  deep  study  of 
Socialistic  doctrine.  He  had  no  logic  on  the  matters  of  his 
beliefs,  he  needed  none.  It  was  sufficient  that  he  had  seen, 
had  felt,  and  he  hugged  to  himself  the  thoughts  thus  in- 
spired^ 

For  the  moment  the  man  Leyburn,  with  his  narrow  eyes, 
his  purposeful  face,  was  something  little  less  than  a  god  to 
young  Frank.  Here  was  a  champion  of  those  very  people 
whom  he  believed  needed  all  the  help  forthcoming.  Here 
was  a  man  who,  from  sheer  belief  in  his  own  principles,  had 
devoted  himself,  nay,  perhaps,  sacrificed  himself,  to  those 
very  ideals  which  he,  Frank,  had  only  just  awakened  to. 
His  official  positions  in  the  organized  societies  of  labor 
surely  testified  to  the  sincerity  of  his  purpose.  Thus  it  was 
certainly  the  work  of  Providence  that  he,  Frank,  had  been 
thrown  into  such  contact  at  the  moment  of  his  need. 

On  that  eventful  train  journey,  Leyburn  had  promised  to 
enroll  him  among  the  workers  for  the  good  of  the  submerged 
ranks  of  labor.  Moreover  he  had  proved  as  good  as  his 
word.  He  had  done  more.  For  some  unexplained  reason 
he  took  Frank  into  his  own  personal  office,  keeping  him  un- 
der his  direct  supervision,  associating  with  him,  and  treat- 
ing him  to  a  confidence  that  was  by  no  means  usual  in  one 
of  the  most  powerful  heads  of  the  labor  movement  in 
Canada. 

It  was  a  strange  association,  these  two.  On  the  one 
hand  a  man  of  great  organizing  powers,  of  keen,  practical 
understanding  of  Socialistic  principles;  and,  on  the  other, 
a  youth  of  lofty  ideals  which  had  little  enough  to  do  with 
the  bitter  class  hatred  belonging  to  the  sordid  modern  prod- 
uct of  Socialism.  Yet  the  older  man's  interest  was  very 
evident,  and  was  displayed  in  many  different  ways.  He 
frequently  lunched  with  his  protege,  and  never  failed  to 
take  him  to  any  demonstration  of  labor  at  which  it  was  his 
duty  to  speak. 


IN    TORONTO  291 

Frank  responded  readily  to  this  kindly  treatment.  Nor 
did  it  ever  occur  to  him  to  wonder  at  it.  So  it  came  about, 
that,  bit  by  bit,  this  kindly  man  with  the  narrow  eyes  and 
hard  smile,  drew  from  him  the  complete  story  of  his  life's 
disaster. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  when  the  last  detail  of  the  story 
was  passionately  poured  into  his  apparently  sympathetic 
ears  that  Austin  Leyburn  treated  his  protege  to  something 
of  his  platform  oratory. 

"Out  of  evil  comes  good — sometimes,"  he  said,  with  a 
twisted,  satirical  smile.  "You  certainly  have  been  the  vic- 
tim of  the  class  against  which  all  our  efforts  are  directed. 
Think  of  it,"  he  went  on,  thrusting  his  elbows  upon  the 
luncheon  table  which  stood  between  them — they  were  in  the 
fly-ridden  precincts  of  the  cheap  restaurant  which  Leyburn 
always  affected — and  raising  his  voice  to  a  denunciatory 
pitch.  "Think  of  it.  Every  man  with  power  to  think, 
with  power  to  work,  who  comes  within  the  web  of  this 
wealthy  man  you  speak  of — whoever  he  is — is  open  to  the 
possibilities  for  evil  of  his  accumulations  of  wealth.  That 
man,  a  millionaire,  openly  confesses  to  being  able  to  buy 
the  law  sufficiently  to  legally  crush  the  moral,  almost  the 
physical  life  out  of  those  who  offend  him."  Then  he  smiled 
whimsically.  "Can  you  wonder  at  the  class  hatred  existing, 
and  of  which  I  know  you  do  not  wholly  approve?"  Then  he 
shrugged,  as  though  to  dismiss  the  matter.  "As  I  said, 
good  out  of  evil — sometimes.  But  for  that  experience  you 
would  undoubtedly  have  joined  the  ranks  of  the  oppressors 
and  assimilated  their  creed." 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Frank  eagerly.  "I  see  all  that.  I  see 
the  iniquity  of  it  all  that  such  tyranny  should  be  possible. 
I  agree  entirely.  It  is  against  the  very  principles  of  all 
creation  that  any  one  man  should  possess  such  power.  No 
man,  woman,  or  child  is  safe  with  such  possibilities  in  our 
midst.  But  this  class  hatred.  The  opposition  of  labor  is 
not  directed  sufficiently  against  the  principle.  It  is  directed 
against  the  individual,  and  so  becomes  class  hatred." 

"Remember  you  are  dealing  with  human  nature,"  Ley- 
burn  objected.  "When  such  forces  as  we  control  are  put 
into  active  protest  against  a  principle,  the  principle  must 
become  merged  in  the  individual  who  represents  it.  It  is  the 


292  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

tangible  evidence  which  an  ignorant  mass  of  labor  needs  of 
the  existence  of  offense  against  the  principle  which  causes 
the  bitterness  of  its  lot." 

"My  objection  is  against  that  fact,"  Frank  persisted,  in 
the  blindness  of  enthusiasm.  "Class  hatred!  It  is  dread- 
ful. Christ  never  preached  class  hatred;  and  no  man  who 
ever  walked  this  earth  had  a  greater  understanding  of  real 
life  than  He.  Listen,  I  read  in  one  of  your  books,  written 
by  a  man  reputed  to  be  a  great  thinker,  that — if  the  work- 
ing men  and  women  of  the  world  were  wiped  out,  capital 
and  its  class  would  become  useless,  paralyzed.  He  also  said 
that  if,  on  the  other  hand,  those  who  represent  capital  were 
wiped  out,  if  all  but  the  working  men  and  women  were  ex- 
terminated, the  world  would  still  go  on  undisturbed,  because 
of  the  worker  left  behind." 

Leyburn  nodded. 

"That  is  one  of  the  strongest  bases  of  the  labor  move- 
ment. Why  should  the  man  or  woman  who  lives  by  the 
sweat  of  others  enjoy  the  luxury  which  is  denied  to  the  people 
who  make  that  luxury  possible?  Is  the  argument  not  per- 
fectly, humanly  just?" 

Frank  leaned  back  in  his  hard  chair.  This  man  was 
damping  some  of  his  enthusiasm  by  the  argument  which 
seemed  to  him  as  purely  selfish  as  were  the  existing  con- 
ditions of  the  methods  of  capital. 

"Then  the  husbandman  in  the  vineyard  was  all  wrong?" 
he  demanded. 

"On  the  contrary,  he  was  quite  right — if  he  could  get  no 
more  than  the  penny  he  engaged  for,"  replied  Leyburn 
cynically. 

Frank  returned  again  to  the  attack. 

"Now  you  are  preaching  for  the  worker  the  very  methods 
of  present-day  capital.  You  are  telling  him  to — grab." 

"So  long  as  capital — grabs,  labor  must  do  likewise.  Un- 
fortunately this  is  an  age  of  grab,  and  until  evolution  carries 
it  away,  like  any  other  pestilential  influence,  we  must  all 
grab,  or  die  in  the  gutter." 

Frank  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no,"  he  cried  desperately.  "I  can't  believe  it.  This 
war  of  classes  is  all  wrong.  It  is  against  all  the  ethics  of 
brotherhood.  It  is  the  war  of  body  against  brain.  Leave 


IN    TORONTO 

out  the  individual  and  stick  to  the  principle.  If  the  work- 
ing class  were  wiped  out  to-morrow  the  brain,  which  is  really 
the  life  of  the  world,  would  only  change  its  tactics.  After 
a  brief  stagnation  it  would  evolve  a  fresh  condition  of  things. 
It  would  throw  itself  into  the  necessary  work,  and,  after 
a  while,  its  powers  would  contrive  a  means  whereby  the 
world's  work  would  still  go  forward.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
the  great  minds,  the  thinking  minds  of  those  who  represent 
capital,  were  wiped  out,  after  a  brief  spell  of  chaos,  the 
vitality  of  the  body  would  recreate  a  guiding  system,  and 
things  would  become  the  same  as  they  were  before.  There 
would  again  be  capital  and  labor,  with  its  endless  problem. 
All  that  we  can  humanly  demand  is  equality  and  brother- 
hood for  the  human  race  in  their  various  conditions  of 
life.  If  a  man  works  his  best  he  must  be  able  to  enjoy  life 
as  he  sees  life.  The  rest  belongs  to  a  Divine  Power  over 
which  we  can  have  no  control.  The  world's  goods  must  be 
proportionately  divided,  according  to  all  requirements.  Nor 
do  we  all  need  the  same,  because  of  that  unequal  distribution 
by  divine  hand  of  the  power  to  do.  Oh,  maybe  I  cannot 
make  it  plain.  But  I  can  see  it  all,  if  only  man  will  work  in 
a  common  interest,  as  I  feel  sure  he  was  intended  to  do. 
It  is  a  government  of  common  good  we  need.  One  that 
will  provide  as  well  for  the  laborer  as  the  thinker.  They 
are  two  portions  of  one  whole,  without  either  of  which  the 
other  cannot  exist.  Sever  them,  destroy  either,  and  the  lot 
of  the  other  is  to  be  deplored." 

Frank  waited  with  flushed  face  and  anxious  eyes  for  the 
other's  reply. 

Leyburn's  cynical  eyes  looked  up  from  the  stained  table- 
cloth on  which  the  remains  of  the  meal  were  still  scattered. 

"And  in  the  meantime?"  he  inquired. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"How  are  you  going  to  achieve  this  government,  this 
good  and  merciful  government  that  is  going  to  provide  for 
us,  each  according  to  our  needs?  By  sitting  down  and  sub- 
mitting to  the  sweaters  who  rule  the  lives  of  the  present-day 
laboring  world,  making  its  condition  just  what  their  own 
quality  of  selfishness  demands,  just  because  the  Divine  Hand 
has  bestowed  upon  them  a  greater  power  to  think  than  It 
has  upon  the  worker?  I  tell  you,  boy,  we  are  fighting  for 


294  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

all  that  which  you  have  outlined;  and  we  are  fighting — - 
which  is  the  only  way.  I  said  that  this  was  an  age  of 
grab — and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  it  is  a  pestilential  influence 
that  must  remain  for  years  to  come.  The  brain  must  be 
forced  to  yield  up  its  selfish  desires  by  the  body;  it  will 
never  be  persuaded.  You  used  the  analogy.  I  will  use  it, 
too.  As  you  say,  the  brain  represents  the  thinkers.  In 
human  life  the  brain  thinks,  it  is  selfish  in  its  desires,  and 
its  desires  grow.  They  frequently  grow  beyond  the  endur- 
ance of  the  body,  and  finally  it  submits  the  body  to  such 
conditions  of  disease  that  at  last  the  poor  stricken  thing 
rebels.  Harmony  and  well-being  cannot  endure  in  human 
life  with  the  domination  of  any  one  part  of  it.  Capital  is 
dominating  labor  now,  so  that  the  disease  of  hopelessness 
has  spread  to  every  section.  Life  is  a  burden.  Therefore 
labor  has  rebelled,  is  rebelling,  will  continue  to  rebel,  until 
capital  is  abolished  and  the  harmony  of  equality  is  restored. 
Believe  me,  I  am  only  viewing  your  ideals  through  practical 
eyes.  Come,  my  boy,  we  must  to  work  again.  There  is 
that  case  of  tyranny  to  be  looked  into.  The  discharge  of 
that  fireman  for  drinking  when  off  duty  on  the  North  Sas- 
katchewan Railroad.  There  is  also  the  question  of  colored 
agricultural  workers  to  be  considered.  You,  my  friend,  are 
young.  You  are  enthusiastic  and  idealistic,  and  I  like  you 
for  it.  But  you  will  soon  see  that  that  which  a  long  experi- 
ence has  taught  me  is  right." 

Leyburn  rose  from  his  seat  and  beckoned  the  waiter.  He 
settled  the  bill,  while  Frank  picked  up  his  hat.  The  young- 
ster had  no  longer  need  to  press  it  down  to  his  ears.  His 
hair  was  rapidly  growing  to  that  luxuriant,  wavy  mass, 
which  had  always  been  Monica's  pride. 

At  the  door  of  the  restaurant,  Leyburn  turned  to  him 
with  his  peculiarly  ungracious  smile,  and  sniffed  the  sicken- 
ing atmosphere  of  hot  food. 

"We've  satisfied  our  appetites,  and  now  we  hate  the 
smell,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "Human  nature  is  ungrate- 
ful. By  the  way,  you'd  best  go  on  to  the  Saskatchewan 
Railroad  offices  and  ask  for  that  report  they  promised  to 
send  me.  I'll  go  back  to  the  office."  Then,  as  an  after- 
thought :  "Say,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "I'm  going  to  send 
you  up  West  later.  Along  the  line.  To  do  some — talking. 


IN    TORONTO  295 

But  you'll  need  to  cut  all  that  stuff  right  out.  I  mean  the 
ideal  racket.  So  long." 

He  turned  sharply  away,  and  hurried  down  the  heat- 
laden  street. 

Left  alone,  Frank  looked  after  him.     He  shook  his  head. 

"He's  a  good  feller,"  he  said  to  himself.  "But  he's 
wrong — dead  wrong — in  some  things." 

At  that  moment  somebody  bumped  into  him,  and  he  turned 
to  apologize.  Seeing  it  was  a  woman,  he  raised  his  hat. 
Then  an  exclamation,  half  joyous,  half  of  dismay,  broke 
from  him. 

"Phyl!"  he  cried.     "You?     Li  Toronto?" 

In  her  turn  the  girl  started  and  stared. 

"Frank!"  she  cried  incredulously.  Then,  regardless  of 
the  passers-by:  "Thank  God,  I've  found  you!  Oh,  Frank, 
I'm  so — so  glad.  We  have  been  hunting  Toronto  these 
weeks ;  and  now — now " 

"We?" 

The  girl's  delight  and  evident  love  almost  seemed  to  have 
passed  Frank  by.  With  a  rush  all  the  old  pain  of  parting 
from  her,  all  the  dreary  heartache  he  had  endured  when 
writing  his  farewell  to  her,  was  with  him  once  more,  as  his 
troubled  eyes  searched  the  sweet  face  looking  so  radiantly 
up  into  his. 

"Yes,  <we,'  dear." 

Phyllis,  her  pretty  face  wreathed  in  a  happy,  confident 
little  smile,  was  studying  him  closely. 

"Well?"  she  cried,  as  the  great  fellow  stared  back  at  her, 
rather  like  a  simple  babe. 

Frank  tried  to  pull  himself  together.  It  was  like  the 
ponderous  shake  of  a  St.  Bernard  dog,  rousing  himself  to 
activity. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  or  do."  The  man's  dilemma 
was  struggling  with  the  joy  of  this  unexpected  reunion. 
"Why  have  you  come  here?  Oh,  Phyl,  it  is  so  hard.  It  has 
been  so  terribly  hard.  I  tried  to  explain  it  all  in  my  letter, 
I  never  thought " 

The  girl  nodded.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she  permit  any 
other  emotion  than  her  delight  at  seeing  him  again,  appear 
in  her  smiling  eyes.  She  tilted  her  head  slightly  on  one  side, 
so  that  the  shadow  of  her  wide-brimmed  hat  was  removed 


296  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

from  her  face.  Frank  became  aware  of  the  movement,  also 
of  the  hat.  He  also  became  aware  of  the  smartly  tailored 
costume  she  was  wearing,  even  the  pointed  toes  of  her  ex- 
quisite shoes,  and  the  white  kid  gloves  upon  her  hands.  She 
intended  him  to  notice  these  things. 

"Oh,  Frank,"  she  cried,  deliberately  ignoring  his  pro- 
test, "Toronto's  just  the  loveliest  place  ever  to  buy  dress 
fixings.  Mrs.  Hendrie  has  just  made  me  buy  and  buy,  till 
—well,  till  I  don't  know  how  much  she's  spent  on  me.  You 
see,"  she  went  on  naively,  "she  said  I  just  couldn't  get  hunt- 
ing my  beau  in  Toronto  with  hayseed  sticking  all  over  my 
hair.  Don't  you  think  I — I  look  better  this  way?" 

This  strange  child  from  a  "way-off"  western  farm  had 
her  own  methods  of  campaign.  She  was  playing  for  a  big 
stake,  the  biggest  she  could  think  of — the  man  she  loved. 

Frank  breathed  a  deep  sigh. 

"You — you  just  look  wonderful,  Phyl,"  he  cried,  for  a 
moment  all  else  smothered  in  the  background. 

"True?     Sure?" 

"True?  Say,  you  just  couldn't  look  more  lovely,"  the 
boy  cried. 

Phyllis  laughed. 

"Then  come  right  along.  See,  we're  bumping  folks, 
standing  here.  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  where  your — 
where  Mrs.  Hendrie  is  waiting  for  you.  The " 

But  the  mention  of  Monica  left  Frank  once  more  alive  to 
realities. 

"No,  no,  Phyl,"  he  cried.  "It  is  useless.  Don't  you 
understand?  I  love  my — I  love  Mon  as  dearly  as  ever  son 
loved  a  mother,  but — the  barrier  has  been  set  up  between 
us,  and  can  never  be  removed.  Oh,  believe  me,  it  is  no  resent- 
ment, or  bitterness  against  her.  She  just  belongs  to  a 
different  world  from  mine — now.  It  would  give  her  pain. 
I  know  what  she  would  say — and  I  know  what  I  must  say." 

In  spite  of  all  his  protests,  Frank  was  walking  beside 
Phyllis,  moving  unquestioningly  in  the  direction  she  selected. 

The  girl  looked  round  laughingly.  Phyllis  had  never 
perhaps  smiled  so  joyously,  so  sweetly  as  she  was  smiling 
now.  But  every  look,  every  word  she  spoke,  was  full  of 
definite  purpose. 

"I  haven't  recovered  from  the  shock  you  handed  me — 


IN    TORONTO  297 

in  that — that  letter,"  she  said,  without  a  shadow  of  distress 
in  her  smiling  eyes.  "I  haven't,  true  as  true.  Say,  I  just 
kind  of  wonder  if  you've  got  half  a  notion  how  it  feels  for  a 
girl  to  be  thrown  over  by  letter?  Say,  I  just  won't  be 
thrown  over  by — by  letter.  That's  why  I've  come  here  to 
Toronto.  I've  come  right  here  so  you  can  tell  me  with 
your  own  two  very  determined  lips,  I'm  not  wanted.  When 
you've  told  me  that  I'm  not  wanted,  that  you  just  don't 
love  me  any  more,  then  I'm  going  right  away  to  Gleber, 
and  get  on  with  my  plowing.  I'll  just  pack  up  all  the 
elegant  suits  Mrs.  Hendrie's  bought  me,  and  never  see  them 
again.  Then  I'll  fix  myself  up  in  black  and  bugles — what- 
ever they  are — and  be  a  widow  woman  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  Now,  truth!  You  don't  love  me — any  more:  and  you 
don't  want  me?" 

Just  for  a  moment  the  girl's  mask  was  dropped  as  she 
made  her  final  demand. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  but  long  enough  for  Frank  to 
see  the  depth  of  her  love  for  him  shining  in  her  dark  eyes. 
The  desire  then  and  there  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  throw 
every  resolution  to  the  winds,  was  well-nigh  overpowering, 
but  he  put  it  from  him,  and  the  effort  left  him  speechless. 

"Frank?"  she  urged. 

But  still  the  man  remained  silent. 

"Do  you  know,  dear,  you'd  have  been  more  merciful  if 
you'd  brutally  struck  me  in  the  face  with  your  great  big  fist, 
instead  of  sending  me  that  letter.  You  see,  you'd  sure  have 
left  me  senseless." 

The  subtle  appeal  was  too  much  for  the  man.  His  face 
flushed  with  a  shame  that  swept  through  his  heart. 

"But  what  could  I  do,  Phyl?  I  had  to  tell  you.  I  had 
to  give  you — your  freedom.  You  could  never  marry  a — 
convict." 

Phyllis's  mask  of  lightness  returned  to  her  face.  She 
meant  to  hit  this  man  she  loved,  hard.  It  took  all  her  cour- 
age to  do  it,  and  the  only  possible  chance  she  had  was  to 
laugh  with  it. 

"A  convict?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Frank,  I  could  marry  a 
convict  far,  far  easier  than  a— present-day  Socialist." 

The  thrust  drove  straight  home,  and,  witnessing  the  havoc 
she  had  wrought,  the  girl  consoled  herself  with  the  thought 


298  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

that  hers  had  been  the  plunging  of  the  surgeon's  knife  that 
the  healing  of  this  man  might  be  the  surer,  the  more  com- 
plete. 

"Phyl!" 

The  man's  look  was  one  of  dreadful  pain.  He  felt  as  if 
every  ideal  and  honest  feeling  he  had  ever  had,  had  fallen 
upon  him,  crushing  him  beneath  its  burden.  Phyl's  ridicule 
was  worse,  far  worse  than  any  suffering  he  had  endured, 
however  unjust. 

"You  can't — you  don't  mean  that,"  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"No,  no,  Phyl,  you  don't  mean  it.  You " 

"But  I  do — I  do,"  the  girl  cried,  with  sudden  passion. 
"Oh,  I  know  you've  suffered.  God  only  knows  just  how 
you've  suffered!  And  since  I've  heard  all  you've  gone 
through,  I've  suffered  every  moment  of  it  with  you.  Yes, 
I  know  I've*  hurt  you  now,  and  I  meant  to  hurt  you — not 
because  you  hurt  me,  not  because  of  all  you  wrote  me  in 
your  letter,  but  because  I  want  to  tell  you  all  I  feel  about — 
about  this  new  life  you  figure  to  mix  up  with.  Frank,  your 
own  honest  notions  are  just  too  big  for  words.  They're 
like  you — all  of  them.  But  how — how  are  you  going  to 
carry  them  out?  Say,  I'll  tell  you.  Maybe  I'm  just  seeing 
things  as  they  happen,  and  not  as  folks  guess  they're  going 
to  figger  out.  You're  going  to  help  fix  things  right  by 
tying  yourself  to  the  ranks  of  labor,  so  as  to  fight  capital. 
That's  how  you're  going  to  bring  about  brotherly  and 
sisterly  love  in  the  world !  By  fighting !  Say,  you  said  you 
were  going  to  enlist  in  the  army.  You  have.  And  it's  a 
fighting  army,  facing  all  the  horrors  of  a  war  far  more 
dreadful  than  the  life-and-death  struggle  of  nations.  Do 
you  need  me  to  tell  you  of  the  wretched,  self-seeking  leaders 
of  the  working  men?  The  men  who  lead  them  like  a  flock 
of  silly  sheep  so  they  may  personally  prosper  and  feed  on 
them?  Do  you  need  me  to  tell  you,  what  every  paper  in 
the  world  tells  you,  of  the  awful  sufferings  the  helpless 
women  and  kiddies  go  through?  All  just  because  these 
grabbing  leaders,  yearning  for  publicity  and  power,  order 
their  men-folk  to  stop  work,  and  resort  to  violence  for  a 
few  odd  cents  more  pay,  or  because  some  wretched  scalla- 
wag,  who  richly  deserves  it,  no  doubt,  has  fallen  under  the 
rules  of  his  employers.  That's  not  your  Socialism,  if  I 


IN    TORONTO  299 

know  you.  Oh,  this  horrible,  horrible  bitterness  and  hatred 
going  on  everywhere  about  us.  Why  should  it  be?  You 
ask  that,  too,  and  you  get  right  up  against  one  little  fact 
of  life — the  power  of  money — and  guess  that's  the  root  of 
it.  It  isn't!  It  isn't!  I  tell  you  there's  just  one  cause. 
It's  selfishness.  It's  the  selfishness  of  one  class  just  as  sure 
as  it's  the  selfishness  of  another.  And  they  bring  all  sorts 
of  arguments  about  principle  to  prop  themselves  up  on. 
There's  no  principle  about  it.  It's  just  self,  self,  self,  all 
the  time.  Everybody  wants  something  they  don't  honestly 
earn.  And  when  they  can't  get  it,  if  they  think  they're 
strong  enough,  they  just  start  right  out  to  fight  for  it, 
like  a  lot  of  savages,  while  those  who  look  to  them  for  sup- 
port and  comfort  are  left  to  starve,  and  put  up  with  all 
the  horrors  caused  by  savage  passions,  inflamed  to  frenzy 
by  those  leaders  who  are  the  only  creatures  to  obtain  worldly 
advantage  and  benefit  from  their  disgraceful  doings.  Oh, 
Frank,  it's  just  awful  to  think  that  you  have  become  one 
of  these — these — villains." 

The  girl's  passionate  denunciation  came  to  an  end  just  as 
she  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  great  flight  of  steps  leading  up 
to  the  entrance  of  the  Eldorado  Hotel.  But  she  waited  for 
no  comment  from  her  silent  companion.  She  just  glanced 
up  and  pointed  at  the  building.  Then,  with  an  almost 
kaleidoscopic  return  to  her  lightest,  smiling  manner,  she 
announced  their  arrival  at  their  destination. 

"Say,  Frank,"  she  cried,  with  an  air  of  absurd  import- 
ance. "This  is  my  hotel.  We've  a  suite  of  elegant  apart- 
ments right  on  the  first  floor.  And,  dear,"  with  a  sudden 
tenderness,  "Mrs.  Hendrie — Monica — your  Mon,  who  loves 
you  nearly  as  much  as  I  do,  is  just  waiting  right  there — 
for  you.  You'll  come  along  in?" 

Frank  looked  up  into  the  tenderly  pleading  eyes,  and  his 
last  objection  melted  before  them. 

He  nodded. 


THE    WAY    Otf    THE    STRONG 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    DECISION 

MONICA  and  Frank  were  alone  in  the  former's  private 
sitting-room  at  the  Eldorado  Hotel.  Phyllis  had  conducted 
him  to  the  door  of  the  room,  where  she  waited  until  he  had 
passed  safely  within.  Then  she  discreetly  withdrew  to  pass 
many  anxious  moments  pacing  the  narrow  limits  of  her  own 
bedroom  on  the  same  floor. 

The  sitting-room  was  a  large,  handsomely  furnished 
apartment  with  two  lofty  windows  looking  out  upon  the 
busy  street,  directly  over  the  hotel's  entrance  porch.  At 
one  of  these  windows  Frank  was  standing,  with  his  back 
turned  upon  the  room  and  the  woman  who  had  drawn  so 
near  to  him.  His  troubled  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  busy 
life  outside,  but  it  had  no  interest  for*  him.  Whatever  he 
had  gone  through  before,  he  believed  that  he  was  now  facing 
the  climax  of  his  life.  It  had  arisen  so  suddenly,  so  unex- 
pectedly, as  such  climaxes  do;  and  it  found  him  ready  for 
impulsive  action  that  had  to  be  controlled. 

Monica  was  just  behind  him,  and  a  little  to  one  side.  One 
hand  was  resting  upon  the  cold  radiator  as  though  she 
needed  its  support.  Her  beautiful  face  was  drawn,  and  pale, 
great  dark  rings  surrounded  her  eyes.  Her*  age  was  strongly 
marked  just  now,  it  was  even  exaggerated,  and  had  somehow 
communicated  itself  to  her  shoulders,  which  drooped  in  an 
unusually  hopeless  manner. 

It  had  been  a  long,  and  for  both,  a  painful  interview.  It 
had  been  a  scene  of  love  and  humility  on  the  part  of  the 
proud  wife  of  Alexander  Hendrie,  and  of  affection  yet  deci- 
sion, not  untouched  with  bitterness,  on  the  part  of  the  boy 
who  had  developed  so  quickly  into  a  man  of  responsibility. 
The  mother  love  had  pleaded  with  a  humility  that  was 
pathetic,  and  the  man  had  listened,  steeling  his  heart  against 
the  inroads  which  the  sound  of  that  gentle  voice  made  upon 
his  determination. 

Never  for  one  moment  did  he  find  aught  of  blame  for  her. 
Never  did  he,  by  word  or  look,  convey  anything  but  the 


THE    DECISION  301 

love  she  had  always  known.  How  could  it  be  otherwise? 
Nothing  could  have  broken  down  a  love  such  as  his,  founded 
as  it  was  upon  long  years  of  self-sacrificing  devotion  toward 
himself.  Monica  was  still  to  him  all  she  had  ever  been — his 
mother. 

But  now  her  final  appeal,  that  he  should  abandon  his 
present  life  and  return  to  her,  had  been  made,  and,  as  the 
end  came,  she  handed  him  a  letter  in  Alexander  Hendrie's 
handwriting. 

The  letter  remained  unread  in  his  hands,  held  limply,  a 
thing  apparently  of  no  interest  to  him. 

"Won't  you  read  it,  Frank?  Won't  you  read  it — for 
my  sake?"  Monica  urged,  after  a  long,  painful  silence. 

There  was  something  like  tears  in  her  voice,  and  the 
sound  became  irresistible  to  the  man. 

He  sighed,  and  glanced  down  at  the  folded  paper. 

"Where  is  the  use?"  he  asked  gently.  "There  can  be 
nothing  in  it  to  alter  my  determination.  Oh,  Mon,  don't 
you  understand?  If  I  can  hear  you  plead  and  still  remain 
certain  my  purpose  is  right,  how  can  anything  this  man 
has  to  say,  turn  me  from  it?" 

Monica  drew  a  step  nearer.  Her  hand  had  left  the  cold 
iron.  Now  the  other  was  laid  tenderly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"I  know,  I  know,  Frank,"  she  cried.  "But — won't  you 
read  it?  When  you  have  read  it  you  will  understand  why 
I  want  you  to  do  so.  It  is  the  letter  of  a  man  with  a  mind 
as  big  as  his  passions  are — violent.  It  is  the  letter  of  a 
man  whose  proud  head  is  bowed  in  the — dust  with  grief  at 
the  wrong  he  has  done  to  you.  If  you  knew  him  as  I  know 
him,  you  would  realize  all  that  the  writing  of  that  letter 
must  have  cost  him.  Were  it  not  that  I  know  something 
of  the  great,  passionate  heart  that  beats  in  his  body  I  could 
not  have  believed  such  a  letter  written  by  him  possible.  Oh, 
Frank,  if  nothing  I  can  say,  can  turn  you  from  the  purpose 
of  your  life,  let  me  plead,  as  I  have  never  pleaded  to  any  one 
before,  be  your  just,  kindly  self  for  a  few  moments,  and — 
listen  while  he  speaks  to  you." 

Frank  unfolded  the  letter,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, withdrew  his  gaze  from  the  window,  and  began  to 
read,  Monica  waited  breathlessly.  The  letter,  in  a  clear, 
bold  handwriting,  was  without  heading  or  date. 


302  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"I  cannot  begin  this  with  a  conventional  heading.  I 
cannot  expect  that  you  would  tolerate  any  sort  of  demon- 
strativeness.  Therefore,  what  I  have  to  say  must  be  short, 
sincere,  and  to  the  point.  I  am  sending  this  by  Monica, 
to  ensure  your  receiving  it,  and  in  the  hope  that  she  will 
persuade  you  to  read  it.  I  can  think  of  only  one  wrong, 
ever  committed  by  man,  greater  than  that  which  I  have 
done  to  you.  The  wrong  I  refer  to  was  done  some  two 
thousand  years  ago.  The  horror  of  that  crime  has  remained 
to  those  whose  forbears  committed  it,  and  will  remain  so 
long  as  their  lives  last.  The  horror  of  my  crime  will  so 
remain  with  me.  This  may  sound  extravagant  to  you, 
however  bitter  your  feelings,  but  you  do  not  know,  perhaps 
you  never  will  know,  all  that  is  in  my  mind  as  I  write.  How- 
ever, that  is  for  me,  and  it  is  not  easy.  The  expression  of 
all  my  regrets  would  be  useless  to  convey  what  I  feel.  Let 
them  pass.  There  are  things  I  desire  to  do,  and  I  implore 
you,  as  you  may  hope  for  future  salvation,  as  you  may  pity 
a  mind  and  heart  racked  with  torture,  to  come  back  with 
Monica,  and  accept  an  equal  partnership  in  all  I  have  in 
the  world.  It  is  here,  waiting  for  you  at  all  times  between 
now  and  the  day  I  die.  I  hope  that  some  day  you  may 
learn  to  forgive  the  wrongs  I  have  inflicted  upon  you. 

"ALEXANDER  HENDRIE." 

The  letter  remained  in  Frank's  hand  as  his  eyes  were 
once  more  lifted  to  the  window.  There  was  a  slight  change 
in  them,  a  slight  softening  in  their  expression.  Monica, 
watching  him,  drew  a  sharp  breath.  For  an  instant  hope 
leaped  within  her,  and  a  whispered  urging  escaped  her. 

"Frank!" 

The  man  made  no  movement,  but  the  softening  passed 
swiftly  out  of  his  eyes. 

"You  will— come?" 

He  held  out  the  letter  in  reply. 

"Take  it,  Mon,  take  it  back  to  him,"  he  said  deliberately, 
yet  without  harshness.  "I  will  not  write  a  reply,  but  you 
can  take  him  this  message.  The  past  is  over,  and,  though 
perhaps  it  cannot  easily  be  forgotten,  I  have  no  longer  any 
feeling  about  it  beyond  hatred  of  the  injustice  which  makes 
it  possible  for  the  weight  of  one  man's  wealth  to  bring  about 


THE    DECISION  308 

such  persecution  as  was  dealt  out  to  me.  Tell  him  I  cannot 
accept  that  which  he  has  no  right  to  be  able  to  give.  Tell 
him  there  are  thousands — hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  and 
women  who  could  be  benefited  by  that  which  he  would  now 
give  to  me." 

Monica  drew  back  sharply,  the  caressing  weight  of  her 
hand  slipped  from  his  shoulder. 

"You  mean  that?  Oh,  no,  no,  Frank!  You  cannot  an- 
swer him  like  that.  It  is  not  you — never,  never!" 

"That  is  the  answer,  dear."  Frank  had  turned  from  the 
window,  and  came  towards  this  woman  who  had  been  more 
than  a  mother  to  him.  "That  is  the  answer  to  his  letter, 
and  to  all  that  you  have  asked  me.  But  you  are  right,  it  is 
not  I — it  is  the  teaching  of  the  suffering  and  misery  I  have 
witnessed  that  is  speaking,  and  to  that  teaching  I  remain 
loyal." 

"Frank  is  right,  Mrs.  Hendrie." 

The  man  looked  across  the  room  with  a  start,  and  Monica 
turned  abruptly.  Phyllis  was  standing  just  inside  the  room 
with  her  back  to  the  door  she  had  just  closed  behind  her. 
She  nodded  in  answer  to  their  looks  of  surprise,  and  her 
eyes  were  smiling,  but  with  suspicious  brightness. 

"You're  going,  Frank?"  she  demanded.  "You're  just 
going  right  back  to  those — you've — you've  joined?" 

The  girl's  voice  was  so  quiet,  so  soft.  Nor  was  any  of  her 
aching  heart  permitted  to  add  one  touch  of  appeal  to  her 
manner.  The  man  cleared  his  throat.  He  averted  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  Phyl,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

He  stood  there  feeling  as  though  he  was  once  more  before 
a  tribunal,  awaiting  sentence.  Phyllis  had  drawn  close  to 
Monica's  side,  and  her  strong  young  arm  had  slipped  pro- 
tectingly  about  the  elder  woman's  waist.  The  girl  under- 
stood her  suffering,  and  her  own  added  to  the  sympathy  of 
her  action. 

Her  eyes  shone  up  into  the  man's  face.  Their  brightness 
was  the  brightness  of  tears  she  would  not  shed. 

"Then— it's  'good-bye'?"  she  said  gently. 

The  man  nodded.  He  dared  not  speak  until  he  had  full 
mastery  of  himself. 

Phyllis  sighed. 

"We  came  here,  Frank,  to  show  you  all  that  was  in  the 


804  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

hearts  of  two  women  who — who  love  you,"  she  said  slowly. 
"Maybe  we  haven't  done  it  well.  I  can't  rightly  say."  Her 
smile  was  a  little  wistful,  yet  almost  pathetically  humorous. 
"It's  the  way  with  folks  who  try  hard — isn't  it  ?  They  never 
just  seem  to  get  things  right.  But,  say,  it  doesn't  really 
figure  any,  does  it?  You  see,"  she  went  on,  "we  both  wanted 
you  back.  But  I  needed  something  more  than  that.  You 
told  me  in  your — that  long,  long  letter  of  yours,  marriage 
between  us  was  impossible.  Well,  say,  dear,  there's  just 
one  thing,  and  only  one  thing  could  make  that  so.  If  you 
don't  need  me  then  it's  just — impossible.  I  asked  you  that, 
and  you  didn't  tell  me  in  words.  But  everything  else  you 
told  me  about,  you  just  did  want  me." 

The  man  made  a  movement  as  though  to  interrupt  her, 
but  she  would  not  allow  him  to  speak. 

"Don't  worry,  dear.  Guess  you  got  all  you  need  that  way 
coming.  I  just  want  you  to  know  I  love  you  through  and 
through,  and  that  surely  goes — just  as  long  as  I  live.  Mean- 
while," she  added,  her  smile  gaining  in  confidence  as  her 
thoughts  probed  ahead  into  the  distant  future,  "I'm  going 
right  back  to  home,  and  mother;  right  back  to  that  little 
tumble-down  shack  you  know,  dear,  and  I'm  going  to  get 
on  with  my — plowing.  And  later  on,  dear,  when  you  just 
get  the  notion,  and  come  along,  why — I  guess  you'll  find  me 
waiting  around  for  you — and  I  shan't  be  fixed  up  in  black — 
and  bugles.  Good-bye,  dear — for  the  present." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SHADOW   OF  WAR 

WITH  t*he  passing  of  summer,  and  the  long,  pleasant  fall, 
winter's  desperate  night  closed  about  the  world.  Now  it 
was  succeeded,  at  last,  by  the  dawn  of  spring,  bringing  with 
it  the  delicate,  emerald  carpet  of  growing  grain,  which 
later  would  ripen  to  a  brilliant  cloth  of  gold.  Nor  was  the 
earth's  beautiful  spring  raiment  to  be  quickly  discarded  for 
its  summer  apparel.  The  keen  winds  yielded  reluctantly  to 
summer  zephyrs,  and  winter's  dread  overcast  retreated 
slowly  before  the  rosy  light  of  the  ripening  season, 


THE    SHADOW    OF    WAR  305 

If  winter's  clouds  of  threatening  elemental  storms  were 
obstinate,  so  were  the  hovering  clouds  of  human  troubles. 
But,  unlike  the  clouds  of  winter,  the  latter  were  growing 
with  the  advancing  season,  growing  until  the  horizon  hung 
with  the  threat  of  storm,  that  was  ready  to  break  even  the 
horizon  at  which  the  ever  optimistic  farmer  gazed. 

It  had  been  a  troublous  fall  in  the  labor  world,  and  an 
even  more  disturbed  winter.  The  dark  months  of  the  year 
had  proved  a  very  hotbed  for  the  microbe  of  industrial 
unrest,  and  it  had  propagated  a  hundredfold. 

As  spring  dawned,  from  every  corner  of  the  world  came 
the  same  story.  Strike,  strike ;  everywhere,  and  in  every 
calling,  the  word  had  gone  forward — Strike!  It  mattered 
not  the  reason.  It  mattered  not  the  worker's  condition. 
If  wages  were  ample,  then  strike  for  less  work.  If  the  work 
was  insufficient,  then  strike  for  a  minimum  wage.  In  any 
case  strike,  and  see  the  demands  included  recognition  of 
labor  unions,  and  particularly  recognition  of  the  dema- 
gogues who  led  them. 

So  the  storm-clouds  of  industrial  insurrection  were  fos- 
tered. They  threatened,  and,  rapidly,  in  almost  every  direc- 
tion, the  flood  of  storm  burst.  Every  sane,  hard-thinking 
man  asked  his  neighbor  the  reason.  Every  far-sighted  man, 
on  both  sides,  shook  his  head,  and  pointed  the  approach 
of  a  hideous  reckoning.  Every  fool  looked  on  and  laughed, 
and,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  swam  with  the  tide  on  the 
side  to  which  he  belonged. 

And  all  the  time  the  demagogues  screamed  from  the  house- 
tops, and  claimed  the  daily  press.  These  carrion  of  democ- 
racy actually  belonged  to  neither  side.  They  did  not  toil 
in  the  mills,  nor  did  they  employ  labor.  Theirs  it  was  to 
feed  upon  the  carcass  of  the  worker,  and  wrest  power  from 
the  hands  of  those  who  possessed  it.  Whatever  happened, 
they  must  be  winners  in  the  game  they  played.  Nor  did 
it  matter  one  iota  to  them  who  might  be  the  sufferers  by 
their  juggling. 

They  possessed  one  marketable  commodity,  their  powers 
of  stirring  strife.  Nor  were  they  particular  to  whom  they 
sold.  They  belonged  to  a  class  of  their  own,  an  unscrupu- 
lous, ambitious,  self-seeking  race  of  intelligent  creatures, 

whose  sole  aim  was  publicity  and  power,  which,  in  the  end, 
21 


i306  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

must  yield  them  that  position  and  plenty  which  they  decried 
in  others.  It  mattered  little  to  them  whether  they  preached 
syndication  or  sauce.  Their  services  must  be  paid  for  in 
the  way  they  desired.  Vituperating  from  the  summit  of  an 
upturned  butter  tub,  or  hurling  invective  from  the  cush- 
ioned benches  of  a  nation's  Assembly  of  Legislature,  it  made 
no  difference  to  them.  Anything  they  undertook  must  be 
paid  for,  at  their  own  market  price. 

These  were  the  microbes  of  industrial  unrest  which  had 
multiplied  during  the  dark  months  of  the  year  on  hotbeds 
that  were  rich,  and  fat,  and  warm.  Their  paunches  were 
heavy  with  the  goodly  supplies  of  sustenance  which  they 
drew  from  the  bodies  of  those  who,  in  their  blind  ignorance 
and  stupidity,  were  powerless  to  resist  their  insidious 
blandishments. 

Something  of  all  this  may  have  been  in  Alexander 
Hendrie's  mind  as  he  sat  before  the  accumulations  of  work 
awaiting  his  attention  on  his  desk  in  the  library  at  Deep 
Willows.  His  hard  face  was  shadowed,  even  gloomy.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  man  which  suggested  nothing  of  the  success 
that  was  really  his.  Nothing  of  the  triumph  with  which  the 
successful  organizing  of  the  wheat-growers'  trust  should  have 
inspired  him.  All  his  plans  had  matured,  all  his  efforts 
had  been  crowned  with  that  success  which  seemed  to  be  the 
hall-mark  of  the  man.  That  which  he  set  himself  to  do, 
he  prided  himself,  he  did  with  his  might.  Nor  did  he  relin- 
quish his  grip  upon  it  till  the  work  was  completed. 

But  on  this  particular  spring  morning,  the  hall-mark 
seemed  somehow  to  have  become  obscured.  His  eyes  were 
troubled  and  brooding.  His  work  remained  untouched. 
Even  an  unlighted  cigar  remained  upon  the  edge  of  his 
desk,  a  sure  sign  that  he  had  no  taste  for  the  work  that  lay 
before  him. 

This  condition  of  affairs  had  been  going  on  for  some 
time.  It  had  gradually  grown  worse.  To  the  onlooker,  to 
eyes  that  had  no  real  understanding  of  the  man,  it  might 
have  suggested  that  the  great  spirit  had  reached  the  break- 
ing point,  or  that  some  subtle,  undermining  disease  had 
set  in. 

One,  at  least,  of  those  who  stood  on  intimate  terms  with 
this  man  knew  that  this  was  not  so.  Angus  Moraine  real- 


THE    SHADOW    OF    WAR  307 

ized  the  growing  depression  in  his  chief,  and,  perhaps, 
feared  it.  But  he  knew  its  cause,  or,  at  least,  he  knew 
something  of  its  cause.  For  some  reason,  reasons  which 
to  the  hard  Scot  seemed  all  insufficient,  Hendrie  had 
changed  from  the  time  of  his  discovery  of  the  mistake  he 
had  made  in  the  case  of  Frank  Smith.  He  had  heard  from 
his  employer,  himself  the  story  of  that  mistake,  but  Hendrie 
had  only  told  him  sufficient  of  it  to  account  for  his  actions 
in  obtaining  the  man's  release. 

Then  there  was  that  other,  more  intimate  matter,  the 
news  of  which  had  leaped  like  wildfire  throughout  the  house- 
hold at  Deep  Willows.  Monica  was  ailing.  It  was  obvious 
that  she  was  to  become  a  mother,  and  it  was  equally  obvious 
that  her  health  was  suffering  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 
There  was  a  doctor,  a  general  practitioner,  in  residence  at 
Deep  Willows.  There  was  also  a  night  nurse  in  attendance, 
besides  a  girl  companion,  from  one  of  the  outlying  farms 
over  Gleber  way. 

These  things  were  known  by  everybody,  not  only  in  the 
house,  but  in  the  neighborhood,  and  Angus  understood  that 
the  combination  of  them  all  was  responsible  for  the  appar- 
ently halting  movement  of  the  mechanism  which  so  strenu- 
ously drove  the  life  of  Alexander  Hendrie.  The  man  him- 
self was  just  the  same  underneath  it  all,  but,  for  the  moment, 
the  clouds  were  depressing  him,  and  it  would  require  his  own 
great  fighting  spirit  to  disperse  them. 

Angus  was  in  good  humor  as  he  entered  the  library  just 
before  noon.  He  believed  he  possessed  the  necessary  tonic 
for  his  employer's  case,  and  intended  to  administer  it  in 
his  own  ruthless  fashion. 

Hendrie  glanced  across  at  the  door  as  he  heard  it  open. 
Then,  when  he  saw  who  his  visitor  was,  he  sighed  like  a  man 
awakening  from  an  unpleasant  dream.  He  picked  up  his 
cigar  and  lit  it,  and  Angus  watched  the  action  with  ap- 
proval. He  always  preferred  to  deal  with  Hendrie  when 
that  individual  had  a  cigar  thrust  at  an  aggressive  angle  in 
the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Well?  Anything  to  report?"  Hendrie  demanded.  The 
effort  of  pulling  himself  together  left  him  alert.  The  last 
shadow  had,  for  the  moment,  passed  out  of  his  cold  gray 
eyes. 


308  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Why,  yes." 

Angus  drew  up  a  chair  and  laid  a  sheaf  of  papers  beside 
him.  He  saw  the  crowded  state  of  the  desk,  but  gave  no 
sign  of  the  regret  which  the  sight  inspired. 

"Guess  there's  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  trouble  coming  if  you 
persist  in  this  colored  labor  racket,"  he  said  quickly.  "I 
don't  mind  telling  you  I  hate  niggers  myself,  hate  'em  to 
death.  But  that's  not  the  trouble.  As  I've  warned  you 
before,  ever  since  that  blamed  Agricultural  Labor  Society 
racket  started,  the  beginning  of  last  year,  we've  had  the 
country  flooded  with  what  I  call  'east-side  orators.'  Talk? 
Gee!  They'd  talk  hell  cold.  They've  got  the  ear  of  every 
white  hobo  that  prides  himself  he  knows  the  north  end  of 
a  plow  from  the  south,  and  they've  filled  them  full  of  this 
black  labor  racket." 

Hendrie  was  lifted  out  of  himself.  The  cold  light  of  his 
eyes  flashed  into  a  wintry  smile. 

"Ah,"  he  said.     "Strike  talk." 

"Sure.  And  I  guess  it's  going  to  be  big.  I'd  say  there's 
a  big  head  behind  it  all — too." 

Hendrie  nodded. 

"They've  been  gathering  funds  all  the  year.  Now  they 
guess  they're  ready — like  everybody  else — to  get  their  teeth 
into  the  cake  they  want  to  eat.  Go  ahead." 

Angus  took  a  cigar  from  the  box  Hendrie  held  out,  and 
bit  the  end  off. 

"It's  well  enough  for  you.  You  ain't  up  against  all  the 
racket.  I  am.  We've  got  plenty  labor  around  here  with- 
out darnation  niggers.  Why  not  quit  'em?" 

Hendrie  shook  his  head,  and  the  other  went  on. 

"Anyway,  yesterday,  Sunday,  I  was  around,  and  I  ran 
into  a  perfect  hallelujah  chorus  meeting,  going  on  right 
down,  way  out  on  the  river  bank.  Guess  they  didn't  reckon 
I'd  smell  'em  out.  There  were  five  hundred  white  men  at 
that  meeting,  and  they  were  listening  to  a  feller  talking  from 
the  stump  of  a  tree.  It  was  the  nigger  racket.  That,  and 
strike  for  more  wages,  and  that  sort  of  truck.  He  was 
telling  'em  that  there  was  just  one  time  to  strike  for  farm 
folks.  That  was  harvest.  Said  it  would  hurt  owners  more 
to  see  their  crops  ruined  in  the  ear  than  to  quit  seeding. 
Well,  I  got  good  and  mad,  and  I'd  got  my  gun  with  me. 


THE    SHADOW    OF    WAR  309 

So  I  walked  right  up  to  that  feller,  and  asked  him  what  in 
hell  he  was  doing  on  your  land.  He'd  got  five  hundred 
mossbacks  with  him,  and  he  felt  good.  Guessed  he  could 
bluff  me  plenty.  He  got  terribly  gay  for  a  while,  till  I 
got  busy.  You  see,  with  five  hundred  around  it  was  up  to 
me  to  show  some  nerve.  The  moment  he  started  I  whipped 
out  my  gun.  I  gave  him  two  minutes  to  get  down  and  light 
out.  He  wasted  most  of  them,  and  I  had  to  give  him  two 
that  shaved  the  seat  of  his  pants,  one  for  each  minute.  Then 
he  hopped  it,  and  the  five  hundred  mossbacks  laffed  'emselves 
sick.  However,  I  told  'em  they  were  disturbing  the  Sunday 
nap  of  the  fish  in  the  river,  and  they,  too,  scattered.  But 
it  don't  help,  Mr.  Hendrie.  It  means  a  big  piece  of  trouble 
coming.  Those  fellers'll  gather  round  again  like  flies,  and 
they'll  suck  in  the  treacle  that  flows  from  the  lips  of  some 
other  flannel  mouth.  Specially  if  it's  'black'  treacle." 

Hendrie's  smile  had  become  fixed.  And  the  set  of  it  left 
his  eyes  snapping. 

"See  here,  Angus,"  he  cried,  with  some  vehemence.  "I 
dont  hold  a  brief  for  niggers  as  niggers.  But  I  hold  a 
brief  for  them  as  human  creatures." 

He  swung  himself  round  on  his  chair  and  rested  his  el- 
bow, supporting  his  head  upon  his  hand,  upon  the  overflow- 
ing desk.  His  cigar  assumed  a  still  more  aggressive  pose 
in  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"The  world's  just  gone  crazy  on  equality.  That  is,  the 
folk  who've  got  least  of  its  goods.  That's  all  right.  I'd 
feel  that  way  myself — if  I  hadn't  got.  Well,  here's  an  outfit 
of  white  folk  who  reckon  to  make  me  pay,  and  pay  good. 
Not  me  only,  but  all  who  own  stuff.  Well,  if  they  can 
make  me  pay — guess  I'll  just  have  to  pay.  But  anyway,  I've 
a  right  to  demand  the  equality  they're  shouting  for.  Guess 
a  nigger  hasn't  a  dog's  place  among  white  folks.  I  don't 
care  a  darn.  But  a  nigger  can  do  my  work,  and  I  can 
handle  him.  And  if  the  whole  white  race  of  mossbacks  don't 
like  it  they  can  go  plumb — to — hell.  That's  the  way  I 
feel.  That's  the  way  all  this  strike  racket  that's  going  on 
makes  me  feel.  If  they  want  fight  they  can  get  all  they 
need.  Maybe  they  reckon  they  can  break  me  all  up  with 
their  brawn  and  muscle,  and  by  quitting,  and  refusing  to 
take  my  pay.  I  just  tell  you  they  can't.  Let  'em  build  up 


310  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

their  giant  muscle,  and  get  going  good.  I'll  fight  'em — 
but  I'll  fight  'em  with  the  wits  that  have  put  me  where  I 
am,  and — I'll  beat  'em." 

Angus  Moraine's  sour  face  and  somber  eyes  lit.  He  knew 
his  man,  and  he  liked  to  hear  him  talk  fight.  But  he  was 
curious  to  know  something  of  that  which  he  knew  still  re- 
maimed  to  be  told. 

"This  is  the  first  year  of  the  trust  operations,"  he  said 
shrewdly.  "What  if  the  crop  is  left  to  rot  on  the  ground? 
This  place,  here,  is  now  just  a  fraction  of  the  whole  combine, 
as  I  understand  it." 

Hendrie  nodded.  Amusement  was  added  to  the  light  of 
battle  in  his  eyes. 

"Sure,"  he  said. 

Then  he  reached  across  the  desk  and  picked  up  a  large 
bundle  of  papers.  He  passed  them  over  to  the  other. 

"Take  'em,"  he  said  easily.  "Read  'em  over  at  your 
leisure.  You  got  property  in  this  trust.  Maybe  you'll 
read  something  there  that's  cost  me  a  deal  of  thought.  That's 
the  United  Owners'  Protection  Schedule.  You'll  find  in  it 
a  tabulated  list  of  every  property  in  the  combine.  Its  area 
of  grain.  Its  locality.  Also  a  carefully  detailed  list  of 
Owner  Workers,  their  numbers,  and  supplies  of  machinery 
for  seeding  and  harvesting.  You'll  also  find  a  detailed  dis- 
tribution sheet  of  how  these,  in  case  of  emergency,  can 
be  combined  and  distributed,  and,  aided  with  additional 
machinery,  supplied  by  the  trust,  can  complete  the  harvest 
on  all  trust  lands  without  the  help  of  one  single  hired  man. 
The  machinery  is  ordered,  and  is  being  distributed  now— 
in  case  the  railroad  troubles  develop  about  harvest  time. 
There's  also  another  document  there  of  no  small  import- 
ance. It  was  passed  unanimously  at  the  last  general  meet- 
ing of  directors,  and  is  inspired  by  these — darned  labor 
troubles.  It  empowers  me  to  sell  crops  standmg  in  the  ear, 
at  a  margin  under  anticipated  market  price  to  speculators 
— if  it's  deemed  advisable  by  the  directors.  This  again  is 
for  our  protection." 

Then  he  held  up  a  bunch  of  telegrams. 

"These  are  wires  from  some  of  the  big  speculators. 
They're  in  code,  so  you  can't  read  'em.  They're  offers  to 
buy — now.  These  offers,  increasing  in  price  ach  time  as 


THE    SHADOW    OF    WAR  311 

we  get  nearer  the  harvest,  will  come  along  from  now  on 
till  the  grain  is  threshed.  I  can  close  a  deal  any  moment 
I  choose  to  put  pen  to  paper.  Well?" 

"Well?" 

Angus  looked  into  the  man's  fearless  eyes,  marveling  at 
the  wonder  of  foresight  he  displayed.  For  the  moment  he 
almost  pitied  the  dull-witted  farmhand  who  contemplated 
pitting  himself  against  such  caliber. 

"Say,  Angus,  boy,"  Hendrie  went  on,  after  a  pause. 
"Sometimes  I  sort  of  feel  the  game  isn't  worth  it,  fighting 
this  mush-headed  crowd  who  have  to  get  other  folks  to 
think  for  'em,  and  tell  'em  when  they're  not  satisfied.  It's 
like  shooting  up  women  and  children,  in  spite  that  any  half- 
dozen  could  literally  eat  me  alive.  I  tell  you  brain's  got 
muscle  beat  all  along  the  line.  Give  every  man  an  equal 
share  all  over  the  world,  and  in  six  months'  time  it  will  be 
cornered  again  by  brain  that  isn't  equally  distributed,  and 
never  will  be." 

"I'm  getting  another  crew  of  niggers  up  from  the  south, 
and  you'll  have  'em  put  on  'time'  right  here  at  Deep  Wil- 
lows," he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "I'm  going  to  run  my 
land  in  my  own  way.  They  need  fight?  They  can  get  it. 
I'm  in  the  humor  to  fight.  And  if  they  shout  much  more 
I'll  get  Chinamen  down  from  Vancouver  to  bear  a  hand  in 
the  work." 

Hendrie  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  hand  on  the  open 
door.  His  eyes  were  still  alight  with  the  fire  of  battle 
which  Angus's  visit  had  inspired.  The  reckless  spirit  of 
defiance  was  still  stirring,  a  recklessness  which  was,  perhaps, 
unusual  in  him.  The  strongest  characteristic  of  this  man 
was  his  invincible  resolution.  It  was  his  deliberateness  of 
purpose,  urged  by  supreme  personal  force  that  had  placed 
him  where  he  was — not  recklessness. 

But  just  now  an  actual  desire  for  recklessness  was  run- 
ning riot  through  his  hot  veins.  He  wanted  to  fight.  He 
felt  it  was  the  safety  valve  necessary  for  his  own  desperate 
feelings. 

Monica's  condition  more  than  troubled  him.  All  the  more 
so  because  he  knew  that  his  own  actions  had  helped  her 
peculiar  ailing,  which  was  rapidly  sapping  all  her  vitality 


312  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

at  the  time  she  most  needed  it.  He  knew,  no  one  better, 
that  Frank's  troubles,  his  absence,  and  the  uncertainty  of 
his  future,  had  played  upon  her  nervous  system  till  she  was 
left  no  longer  fit  to  bear  her  burden  of  motherhood. 

Oh  yes,  he  knew.  He  knew  of  the  shattered  wreck  of 
her  woman's  heart,  and  it  maddened  him  to  think  that  the 
cause  of  it  lay  at  his  door.  More  than  this,  the  black, 
haunting  shadow  of  memory  left  him  no  peace.  It  was  with 
him  at  all  times,  now  jeering  and  mocking,  now  threatening 
him.  But  his  own  remorse  he  felt  he  could  bear.  He  was 
a  fighter;  he  could  battle  with  self  as  with  any  other  foe. 
But,  for  Monica,  his  love  drove  him  to  a  desperation  which 
sometimes  threatened  to  overwhelm  him. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  hurried  toward  the 
entrance  hall.  As  he  reached  it  he  saw  the  figure  of  Phyllis 
Raysun  ascending  the  stairs.  He  promptly  called  to  her. 

"Tell  me,"  he  cried.  "Well,  child?  What  is  Dr.  Fraser's 
report?" 

The  girl  turned,  and  almost  reluctantly  descended  the 
stairs. 

Monica's  appeal  to  her  to  come  to  her  had  been  irresistible 
to  the  heart  of  the  sympathetic  girl.  The  appeal  had  been 
conveyed  to  her  by  Hendrie  himself,  the  man  whom  she 
believed  she  hated  as  a  monster  of  cruelty.  She  had  listened 
to  him,  and  something  in  the  manner  in  which  he  had  urged 
her,  promising  that  the  work  of  her  farm  should  go  forward 
during  her  absence  by  his  own  men,  and  that  her  mother 
should  lack  for  no  comfort  that  money  could  purchase,  gave 
her  an  insight  into  a  nature  that  began  at  once  to  interest 
her,  in  spite  of  her  definitely  formed  opinions  of  him.  The 
man  certainly  puzzled  her  young,  but,  for  a  girl  of  her 
upbringing,  wide  understanding. 

Nor  had  her  stay  at  Deep  Willows  lessened  her  interest. 

Now  she  looked  at  him  with  unsmiling  eyes. 

"The  doctor's  just  gone  right  into  Everton  for  special 
physic,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yes.    But — his  report?" 

Phyllis's  gaze  wandered  to  the  front  door,  out  of  which 
the  doctor  had  just  passed. 

"He  says — slight  improvement,"  she  replied  coldly. 

"AK !     Improvement !     Yes  ?" 


THE    SHADOW    OF    WAR  313 

The  man  sighed.  He  was  clinging  to  the  meager  encour- 
agement of  that  single  word. 

Phyllis  understood.  She  nodded.  Then  her  eyes  lit  with 
a  sudden  purpose,  and  she  dashed  his  hope. 

"Oh,  but  say,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  she  cried.  "It  doesn't  just 
mean  a  thing.  It  doesn't  sure — sure.  There's  just  one 
hope  for  Mo — for  Mrs.  Hendrie.  It's  Frank.  You  don't 
understand.  How  can  you  understand  us  women?  Get 
Frank  right  back  to  her,  and — and  you  won't  need  Doc. 
Fraser  for  her  any  more  than  I  want  him.  That's  what 
you'll  need  to  do.  She's  pining  her  life  right  away  for  him. 
She  loves  him.  He's — he's  her  son.  Can't  you  see?  She 
just  worships  you  right  through,  because  you're  her  hus- 
band. But  Frank?  Why,  she  thinks  of  the  days  when  his 
little  hands  used  to  cling  around  her,  tearing  her  fixings, 
that  cost  money,  and  all  that.  She — she  just  loves  every 
hair  of  his  poor  head." 

The  girl's  hands  were  held  out  appealingly,  and  the  man's 
eyes  dared  not  look  in  their  direction.  She  had  poured  an 
exquisite  torture  into  his  already  troubled  heart,  and  her 
appealing  hands  had  twisted  the  knife  that  probed  its  depths. 
She  could  not  add  one  detail  to  his  knowledge  of  all  it  would 
mean,  not  only  to  Monica,  but  to  himself,  if  only  Frank 
could  be  brought  home  to  the  great  house  at  Deep  Wil- 
lows. 

One  hand  went  up  to  his  clammy  brow.  The  square- 
tipped  fingers  ran  their  way  through  his  ample,  graying 
hair.  Then,  with  a  sudden  nervous  movement,  his  arms 
flung  out. 

"Oh,  God!"  he  cried,  his  eyes  suddenly  blazing  with  a 
passion  that  had  for  one  brief  moment  broken  the  bonds 
which  usually  so  sternly  controlled  it.  "What  do  you  know, 
child?  What  can  you  know  of  the  awful  longing  I  have 
to  bring  that  boy  here?  You  say  I  do  not  know  you  women. 
I  tell  you  you  do  not  know  all  that  men  can  feel.  You 
think  me  a  brute,  a  monster;  I  have  seen  it  in  your  eyes. 
You  think  my  every  thought  is  money  and  self.  Maybe  you 
are  justified.  It  is  money — gold  that  has  been  my  undoing. 
It  is  that  which  has  wrecked  my  life.  Pshaw!  You  don't 
understand.  Nobody  does — but  myself.  But  I  tell  you, 
here  and  now,  I'd  give  all  I  have,  everything  I  possess  in 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

life,  even  life  itself,  to  bring  that  boy  here,  and  know  that 
he  would  remain  with  us  for — ever." 

His  outburst  left  the  girl  half  frightened.  But  his  passion 
died  out  almost  as  swiftly  as  it  had  arisen.  His  control 
was  not  long  yielded,  and,  as  his  eyes  resumed  their 
wonted  steadiness,  and  looked  up  into  Phyllis's  with 
something  almost  like  a  smile,  she  timidly  sought  to  help 
him. 

"I'm — I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  on  the  impulse.  Then  she 
leaned  forward  eagerly.  "But — but  can't  it — be  done?  Oh, 
if  he  would  only  come — in  time.  I  know  he  will  come — 
some  day.  If  I  did  not — then — then  I  shouldn't  want  to 
go  right  on  living." 

The  man  started  slightly. 

"I — I  had  forgotten — you,"  he  said. 

Phyllis  nodded. 

"Frank  is  in — Calford,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  had  mail 
from  him  yesterday." 

She  was  speaking  in  the  hope  that  what  she  said  might 
help  to  stir  him  to  some  definite  action.  She  was  beginning 
to  understand  the  powers  which  he  possessed. 

The  man  appeared  to  be  lost  in  thought. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Frank — one  day,"  she  went  on,  in 
her  confident  little  way. 

Suddenly  Hendrie  looked  round  at  her.  His  eyes  sur- 
veyed her  closely.  He  became  aware  for  the  first  time  of 
the  strength  of  her  pretty  face.  The  bright  intelligence 
looking  out  of  her  deep  eyes.  The  firmness  of  her  mouth 
and  chin.  These  things  left  a  marked  effect  upon  him.  His 
manner  became  almost  gentle. 

"What  is  he  doing  in  Calford?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

A  faint  smile  lit  the  girl's  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then 
passed. 

"He's — guess  you'd  call  it  'agitating.'  He  doesn't.  I'd 
say  he  calls  it  preaching  brotherhood  and  equality  to  a 
gang  of  railroaders." 

Again  the  man  started. 

"He's — working  on  the — railroad  trouble?"  he  demanded 
incredulously. 

Phyllis  nodded.     Hendrie  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Yes.    He's  been  working  hard  for  a  year  now,  and — and 


CAPITAL    AND    LABOR  315 

I  believe  he's  just  thrown  himself  into  the  cause  of — Social- 
ism with  all  his  might.  He — he  gets  talking  everywhere. 
His  name's  always  in  the  papers.  Say,  can't  you  do  a 
thing?  Can't  you  help — bring  him  here?" 

Hendrie  looked  into  the  girl's  earnest  face.  Then  he 
looked  away.  A  dozen  conflicting  emotions  were  stirring 
within  him. 

"I  can't  say  right  now,  child,"  he  replied,  after  a  pause. 
Then  he  looked  up,  and  Phyllis  read  a  definite  resolve  in  his 
hard  gray  eyes.  "You  best  write  him,"  he  went  on.  "Write 
him  to-day.  Tell  him  how  Monica  is.  Tell  him  all  you 
like,  but  leave  me  out.  Maybe  I  can  do  something.  Guess 
there's  going  to  be  a  big  fight  with  labor,  and  we're  going 
to  be  in  it.  Maybe  the  thought  of  it  makes  me  feel  good. 
It's  about  the  only  thing  can  make  me  feel  good — now.  But 
I  wish — your  Frank  was  on  our  side,"  he  went  on,  almost 
to  himself.  "I'd  say  he'd  be  a  good  fighter.  Yes,  I'd  say 
he  was  that.  Must  be.  It's  good  to  fight,  too,  when  troubles 
get  around.  It's  good — sure." 

"Must  men  always — fight?"  asked  Phyllis  quietly. 

The  man  stared. 

"Why,  yes !"  he  said  in  astonishment. 

"Frank  doesn't  think  so." 

The  millionaire  shook  his  head  deliberately. 

"Say,"  he  cried  confidently,  "your  Frank  will  fight  when 
the  time  comes.  And — he'll  fight — big." 

"What  makes  you  say — that?" 

The  girl's  question  came  sharply,  and,  in  a  moment,  a 
great  light  leaped  into  Alexander  Hendrie's  eyes. 

"What  makes  me  say — that?"  he  cried.  Then  he  shrugged, 
and  moved  to  pass  her  on  the  stairs  on  the  way  to  his  wife's 
room.  "I  know,"  he  said,  confidently.  "That's  all." 


CHAPTER  IX 

CAPITAL    AND    LABOR 

IT  was  a  large  hall  on  the  outskirts  of  Calford,  in  one  of 
the  poorer  neighborhoods.  It  was  packed  almost  to  suffo- 
cation by  an  audience  of  stem-faced,  eager  humanity.  There 


316  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

were  the  ample  figures  of  uniformed  train  conductors ;  there 
were  the  thin,  hard-muscled  freighters.  There  were  men 
from  the  locomotive  departments,  with  traces  of  coal-dust 
about  their  eyes,  of  which,  even  in  their  leisure,  they  never 
seem  quite  able  to  rid  themselves. 

There  were  colored  Pullman  servants,  and  waiters,  and 
cooks  from  the  dining-cars.  There  were  plate-layers  in 
their  blue  overalls,  and  machinists  from  the  round-house. 
So,  too,  was  the  depot  department  represented.  It  was  a 
great  gathering  of  all  grades  of  railroad  workers  on  the 
Calford  section  of  the  system. 

The  benches  were  crowded  right  up  to  the  narrow  plat- 
form, upon  which  a  group  of  four  men,  evidently  workers 
like  the  audience,  were  seated  behind  a  tall  youth,  with 
thick,  fair  hair  and  enormous  breadth  of  shoulder.  He  was 
standing  out  alone.  He  was  talking  rapidly  in  a  deep, 
resonant  voice  which  carried  distinctly  to  the  remotest  cor- 
ners of  the  building.  His  face  was  flushed,  and  his  blue 
eyes  were  alight  with  earnestness  for  the  subject  of  his 
address. 

Point  after  point  he  was  striving  to  drive  home  by  the 
sheer  force  of  his  own  convictions.  There  was  no  display 
about  him.  There  was  none  of  the  pathetic  humor,  or  the 
unconsciously  humorous  pathos  of  the  ordinary  demagogue. 
He  was  preaching  the  gospel  of  equality,  as  he  saw  it, 
judiciously  tempered  to  meet  with  the  requirements  of  the 
society  to  which  his  audience  belonged,  and  which  he,  for 
the  moment,  represented. 

He  talked  well.  Extremely  well.  And  his  audience  lis- 
tened. Frequently  his  sentences  were  punctuated  by  ap- 
proving "hear,  hears,"  in  many  directions.  But  there  was 
none  of  that  explosive  approval  which  is  as  nectar  to  the 
ordinary  demagogue. 

To  one  man,  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  hall,  a  man  nearly 
as  large  as  the  speaker,  though  older,  enveloped  in  a  rough 
suit,  which,  while  matching  the  tone  of  the  rest  of  the  audi- 
ence, sat  ill  upon  him,  it  seemed  that  the  speaker  lacked 
something  with  which  to  carry  his  audience. 

He  listened  attentively,  he  followed  every  word,  seeking 
to  discover  the  nature  of  this  lack.  It  was  not  easy  to  de- 
tect. Yet  he  was  sure  of  its  existence.  Nor  was  it  till  the 


CAPITAL    AND    LABOR  317 

evening  was  half  spent  that  he  quietly  registered  the  fact 
that  this  man  missed  one  great  essential  to  win  his  way  to 
the  hearts  of  these  people.  He  was  not  one  of  them.  He 
only  understood  their  lives  through  immature  observation. 
He  had  never  lived  their  life. 

Somehow  the  conviction  left  him  satisfied,  and  he  settled 
himself  more  comfortably  upon  his  uncomfortable  bench. 

Later  on  he  became  aware  of  a  sense  of  restlessness  run- 
ning through  the  hall.  There  was  a  definite  clearing  of 
throats  among  the  audience.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
shifting  of  positions.  He  even  observed  the  inclination  of 
heads  toward  each  other,  which  told  him  that  whispered 
conversations  were  going  on  about  him.  To  him  this  meant 
a  waning  interest  in  the  speaker.  Doubt  was  no  longer  in 
his  mind,  but  now  his  satisfaction  became  touched  with 
regret. 

Now  he  knew  this  man  was  not  brutal  enough.  He  was 
not  coarse  enough.  He  did  not  know  the  hearts  of  these 
men  sufficiently.  His  mind  was  far  too  ideal,  and  his  talk 
further  lacked  in  its  appeal  to  self. 

To  hold  these  men  he  must  come  down  to  definite  promises 
of  obtaining  for  them,  and  bestowing  upon  them,  the  fulfil- 
ment of  desires  they  were  incapable  of  satisfying  for  them- 
selves. It  was  the  old  story  of  satisfied  men  made  dissatis- 
fied, and  now  they  required  the  promise  of  satisfaction  for 
appetites  suddenly  rendered  sharp-set. 

The  man  in  the  rough  clothes,  which  sat  so  ill  upon  him, 
knew  that  these  men  would  leave  that  hall  feeling  they  had 
wasted  a  leisure  that  might  have  been  given  up  to  their 
own  particular  pastimes. 

The  meeting  lasted  over  two  hours,  but  the  man  at  the 
back  of  the  hall  left  long  before  its  close.  He  had  heard  all 
he  wanted  to  hear,  and  felt  it  was  sufficient  for  his  purpose. 

He  drove  back  to  his  hotel  in  a  handsome  automobile, 
in  which  his  clothes  looked  still  more  out  of  place.  This 
was  quickly  remedied,  however,  and,  when  once  more  he 
emerged  from  the  building,  he  was  clad  as  befitted  the  sixty- 
horsepower  vehicle  which  he  re-entered. 

Frank  had  returned  to  his  room  at  the  Algonquin  Hotel. 
He  was  tired,  and  a  shadow  of  dissatisfaction  clouded  his 


318  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

blue  eyes  as  he  scanned  the  bundle  of  manuscript  lying  in 
his  lap. 

He  was  going  over  his  speech,  the  speech  he  had  made 
that  night  to  the  railroad  men  of  Calford.  He  knew  he  had 
not  "made  good,"  and  was  seeking  the  weak  spots  in  the 
written  manuscript.  But  he  could  not  detect  them. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  his  weakness  lay  in  the  fact 
of  that  manuscript.  He  had  written  his  speech  because 
he  felt  it  was  an  important  occasion.  Austin  Leyburn  had 
impressed  its  importance  upon  him.  He  had  written  it  and 
learned  it  by  heart,  and  the  result  had  been — failure.  Of 
the  latter  he  was  convinced,  in  spite  of  assurances  to  the 
contrary  by  his  comrades  on  the  platform.  For  the  rest 
the  significance  of  his  failure  had  passed  him  by. 

Yes,  it  was  no  use  shirking  the  point.  He  had  failed. 
He  threw  the  manuscript  upon  his  dressing  bureau,  and 
abandoned  himself  to  the  unpleasant  reflections  the  knowl- 
edge brought. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  a  bell-boy  knocked  at  his 
door.  A  man,  he  said,  was  waiting  below,  and  wished  to 
see  him.  He»  handed  him  a  card. 

Frank  took  it  and  glanced  at  it  indifferently.  Then  his 
indifference  passed,  and  his  eyes  lit  with  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion. The  boy  waited. 

"Alexander  Hendrie,"  he  read. 

"Wants  to  see  you — important,"  the  boy  urged,  as  the 
man  remained  silently  contemplating  the  strip  of  pasteboard. 

"Important."  The  word  repeated  itself  in  Frank's  brain 
again  and  again.  He  still  stared  at  the  card.  What  did 
Alexander  Hendrie  want?  What  could  he  want?  By  what 
right  did  he  dare  to  intrude  upon  him? 

He  was  on  the  point  of  sending  down  a  deliberate  refusal 
to  see  him.  He  was  hot  with  resentment,  a  resentment  he 
had  endeavored  long  ago  to  stifle,  and  had  almost  suc- 
ceeded. But  he  had  miscalculated  the  human  nature  in  him. 
Now  it  rose  up  and  scattered  the  result  of  his  careful 
schooling. 

"Shall  I  show  him  up?"  demanded  the  boy  impatiently. 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Frank's  tongue  to  pronounce  his 
refusal,  when,  quite  suddenly,  he  changed  his  mind.  No,  he 
would  see  him.  It  would  be  good  to  see  him.  He  could  at 


CAPITAL    ANP    LABOR 

least  show  him  he  was  not  afraid  of  him.  He  could  let  him 
see  how  he  despised  all  that  which  this  man  counted  worth 
while.  Yes,  he  would  see  him. 

"Show  him  up,"  he  said  coldly.  The  boy  hurried  away, 
pocketing,  with  the  avidity  of  his  kind,  the  trifling  silver 
coin  he  was  presented  with. 

Frank  rose  from  his  chair  and  began  to  move  about  the 
room  in  the  restless  fashion  of  a  man  disturbed  more  than 
he  admits,  more  than,  perhaps,  he  knows.  All  thought  of 
his  evening's  failure  had  passed  from  his  mind.  He  was 
about  to  confront  the  man  who  had  dishonestly  sent  him  to 
a  convict's  cell,  and  a  deadly  bitterness  surged  through  his 
veins. 

The  door  opened  without  any  warning.  Frank's  back 
was  turned.  His  bed  stood  between  him  and  his  visitor 
when  he  swung  round  and  looked  into  the  millionaire's  face. 

"Well?"  he  demanded,  with  a  deliberate  harshness. 

Every  feeling  of  bitter  antagonism  was  expressed  in  his 
greeting. 

The  millionaire  closed  the  door  behind  him.  His  face 
expressed  no  feeling  whatsoever.  He  had  schooled  himself 
well,  and  his  schooling  possessed  the  ripeness  of  experience. 
He  heard  the  younger  man's  tone,  and  every  feeling  it  ex- 
pressed was  conveyed  to  his  understanding.  He  made  no 
attempt  at  politeness  or  amiability.  He  accepted  the  posi- 
tion as  the  other  chose  to  make  it,  but  without  any  display 
of  resentment. 

"I  drove  from  Deep  Willows  to  hear  you  speak  to-night. 
Also,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you."  Hendrie  glanced  about 
him  at  the  pleasantly  furnished  bedroom.  "May  I— 
sit?" 

For  a  moment  Frank  remained  silent.  He  looked  hard 
at  this  strong,  ruthless  man  with  his  slightly  graying  hair 
and  clean-cut,  resolute  features.  Nor  did  his  powerful  fig- 
ure, in  its  faultless  evening  dress,  escape  his  attention. 

Suddenly  he  kicked  the  rocker  he  had  previously  been 
occupying  toward  his  visitor.  His  action  was  the  extreme 
of  discourtesy  and  contempt. 

"You  are  uninvited,  but — it's  a  free  enough  country," 
he  said,  with  almost  childish  rudeness. 

Hendrie  passed  his  manner  by. 


320  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  it's  a  free  enough  country,"  he  said,  ac- 
cepting the  chair  deliberately. 

Frank  watched  him,  and  slowly  his  self-schooling  began 
to  reassert  itself.  This  man  had  come  with  a  definite  pur- 
pose. Somehow,  he  felt  that,  had  he  been  in  his  place,  it 
would  have  required  some  nerve,  even  courage,  for  him  to 
have  faced  any  man  he  had  dishonestly  condemned  to  peni- 
tentiary for  five  years.  Nature  again  was  strong  in  him. 
He  admired  courage — even  in  one  whom  he  knew  to  be  an 
enemy. 

"Free  enough  for  the  rich,"  he  said,  with  a  sarcasm  that 
hardly  fitted  him.  "Honest  people  don't  always  find  it 
free.'' 

The  millionaire  eyed  him  leisurely.  Somehow  his  gray 
eyes  were  softer  than  usual.  This  man  seemed  powerless 
to  move  him  to  antagonism,  even  to  passive  resentment. 

"Would  you  mind  if — I  lighted  a  cigar?"  he  inquired. 
"I  s'pose  it's  useless  to  offer  you  one.  You  don't  care  to 
receive  anything  at  my  hands." 

Frank  seated  himself  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"Smoke  all  you  want,"  he  said  ungraciously.  "No,  I 
want  nothing  at  your  hands — except  to  be  let  alone." 

Hendrie  deliberately  lit  his  cigar.  For  once  it  did  not 
find  its  way  to  the  corner  of  his  hard  mouth.  He  blew  a 
thin  stream  of  smoke  from  his  pursed  lips,  and  the  action 
ended  in  the  faintest  possible  sigh. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  Then  he  leveled  his  eyes  directly 
into  the  other's.  "I  made  you  an  offer  months  ago.  You 
refused  it  then.  I  s'pose  you  still  feel  the  same?  It  still 
stands." 

Frank  sat  up,  and  his  eyes  lit. 

"It  can  go  on  standing,"  he  cried  fiercely.  "I  tell  you 
I  want  nothing  from  you.  I  suppose  it  is  only  the  arrogance 
of  your  wealth  makes  you  dare  to  offer  me — me  such  com- 
pensation." He  finished  up  with  a  laugh  that  had  nothing 
pleasant  in  it. 

"Dare?"     Hendrie's  bushy  brows  were  raised  mildly. 

"Yes,  dare!"  There  was  something  very  like  violence  in 
the  younger  man's  tone. 

"I  thought  every  man  who  does  a  wrong — unwittingly— 
has  a  right  to  make — reparation,  not  compensation." 


CAPITAL    AND    LABOR 

"Unwittingly?  Do  you  call  it  'unwitting'  when  you  use 
your  wealth  to  bribe  and  corrupt  so  that  a  man,  even  if 
he  be  guilty,  may  be  made  to  suffer?  These  were  the  things 
you  did  to  ruin  me — an  innocent  man." 

Hendrie  smoked  on.  His  eyes  were  lowered  so  that  the 
other  could  not  see  their  expression. 

"I  did  these  things,  and — there  is  no  excuse,"  he  said 
presently.  "You  are  young.  Anyway,  you  cannot  see  with 
my  eyes.  Let  me  try  to  fit  the  case  on  you.  Suppose  you 
married — your  Phyllis.  Suppose  you  had  every  reason  for 
believing  her  faithless  to  you.  Suppose  you  caught  her 
lover,  as  you  believed,  with  money,  your  money,  with  which 
she  had  supplied  him.  To  what  lengths  Vould  you  go  to 
punish  him?" 

"It  would  be  impossible.  As  impossible  as  it  was  in  your 
wife's  case." 

"Just  so.     But — suppose.     Suppose — you  believed." 

Hendrie  was  leaning  forward  in  his  rocker." 

"I  might  shoot  him,  but  I  would  not — 

"Just  so — you  would  commit  murder,  where  I — I  resorted 
to  methods  perhaps  less  criminal.  Suppose  I  had  shot  you. 
Suppose  I  had  escaped  the  legal  consequences  of  my  crime, 
and  then  discovered  your  innocence.  Need  I  go  further?" 

The  subtle  manner  in  which  he  had  been  inveigled  into 
debate  infuriated  Frank.  But  somehow  he  was  powerless 
to  withdraw.  The  man's  calmness  held  him,  and  he  blun- 
dered further. 

''If  you  possessed  half  the  honesty  you  claim  for  your 
purpose  you  would  have  been  man  enough  to  go  to  your  wife 
for  explanation." 

Again  Hendrie's  eyes  were  averted,  but  the  extraordinary 
mildness  of  his  manner  forced  itself  further  on  the  younger 
man. 

"And  yet  you  would  have  shot  the  man  you  found  in 
what  you  believed  similar  relations  to  your — Phyllis?  Do 
you  know  why  you  would  have  done  that — even  worse  than 
I  did — in  the  eyes  of  the  law?  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  be- 
cause— you  love  Phyllis.  Because  you  really  love  Phyllis 
you  would  do  as  your  heart  dictates — not  as  your  head 
prompts  you.  Did  you  not  truly,  humanly  love,  you  would 

go  to  her  for  explanation,  because  then  you  would  not  fear 

22 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

to  hear  the  hideous  truth  from  her,  that  she  no  longer  loved 
you.  In  some  things,  my  boy,  where  our  love  is  concerned, 
we  do  not  possess  all  our  courage.  I  was  older,  I  knew 
more  of  life,  therefore  I  did  not  shoot,  as  I  could  easily  have 
done.  But  my  passion  for  my  wife  is  as  strong  as  is  your 
young  love  for  Phyllis,  and  I  was  too  cowardly  to  risk  hear- 
ing the  truth  that  her  love  for  an  elderly  man  was  dead,  and 
all  her  affection  was  given  to  a  younger  man.  Try  and 
picture  my  fears  if  you  can.  I,  with  my  hair  graying,  and 
you,  with  the  flowing  hair  of  superb  youth." 

Frank  had  no  answer.  He  was  trying  to  remember  only 
his  injuries  at  this  man's  hands. 

"It  is  because  of  these  things  I  have  dared  to  offer  to 
make  reparation  to  you,  have  dared  to  come  and  see  you," 
Hendrie  went  on.  Then  his  eyes  smiled  into  the  other's 
half  angry,  half  troubled  face.  To  any  one  knowing  the 
man,  his  smile  was  a  miraculous  change  from  the  front  with 
which  he  usually  faced  the  world.  "You  will  accept  nothing 
from  my  hands,  you  say.  So  be  it.  But — and  make  no 
mistake — reparation,  all  of  it  that  lies  in  my  power,  shall 
be  made.  That  you  cannot  prevent.  Remember  you  are 
launched  upon  a  life  of  great  vicissitudes.  You  cannot  fore- 
see its  ramifications,  you  cannot  see  its  possibilities.  Wher- 
ever you  are  I  shall  be  looking  on,  and,  though  you  may 
not  know  it,  all  my  influence  will  be  at  work — on  your  be- 
half. I  was  around  to-night,  dressed  in  clothing  no  doubt 
you  would  like  to  see  me  dressed  in  always,  listening  to 
your  particularly  clever,  but  unconvincing  speech  to  the 
railroad  men.  You  would  have  done  really  well  among  men 
of  a  higher  intelligence,  men  who  think  and  feel  as  you  do, 
but  you  failed  to  raise  one  single  hope  among  those  you 
were  addressing,  that  they  would  get  'something  for  nothing' 
if  they  followed  your  leadership.  Consequently  you  failed." 

Frank's  face  suddenly  flushed,  and  a  fierce  retort  leaped 
to  his  lips. 

"Something  for  nothing!"  he  cried  scathingly.  "That 
is  your  understanding  of  the  laborer  who  is  sweated  by  big 
corporations  seeking  outrageous  dividends.  Something  for 
nothing!"  he  went  on,  lashing  himself  to  a  white  fury.  "It 
is  always  the  sneer  of  the  employer,  of  the  vampire  who  lives 
by  others'  toil  and  enjoys  luxury,  while  those  who  help 


CAPITAL    AND    LABOR 

them  to  it  may  starve  for  all  they  care.  I  tell  you  all  these 
poor  people  can  squeeze  from  the  grasp  of  capital  is  only  a 
tithe  of  their  just  due.  Every  man  is  entitled  to  a  fair  share 
of  the  profits  of  his  toil.  He  is  entitled  to  live  a  life  of 
comfort  and  happiness  in  proportion  to  the  service  he  gives 
in  the  world's  work. 

Frank's  eyes  were  flashing  and  his  breath  came  quickly, 
but  he  stared  blankly  as  the  other  nodded  approval  of  his 
claims. 

"Perfectly  right,"  Hendrie  said.  "Perfectly  just."  He 
leaned  back  in  his  rocker  and  swung  himself  to  and  fro.  His 
cigar  was  poised  in  one  hand,  and  his  eyes  were  seriously 
reflective.  "Does  he  not  get  that?"  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"No,  a  thousand  times  no!"  Frank's  denial  came  with 
all  the  force  of  his  passionate  conviction. 

"You  talk  of  service  in  the  world's  work,"  Hendrie  went 
on  reflectively,  apparently  untouched  by  the  other's  heat. 
"You  suggest  that  it  means  a  man's  willingness  to  exercise 
his  muscles,  and  whatever  intelligence  he  may  possess  in 
the  general  work  which  is  required  by  civilization  at  the 
moment,  and,  which,  incidentally,  is  to  provide  him  with 
a  means  of  living.  All  labor  and  those  who  would  protect 
labor  forget,  or  they  seem  to  me  to  forget,  the  fundamental 
principle  of  all  civilization.  They  seem  to  forget  that  to 
which  civilization  owes  its  very  existence — and  to  whom. 
Civilization  owes  its  existence  to  the  few — not  the  many. 
Civilization  owes  its  progress  to  the  thinkers,  not  the  mere 
toilers.  Battles  are  won  by  organization  which  is  the  work 
of  the  thinker,  not  the  mad,  uncontrolled  rush  of  a  rabble 
army.  The  mill  owner  is  the  thinker  who  must  find  a 
market  for  the  wares  produced  in  his  mills,  or  there  is  no 
work  for  the  laborer.  He  must  found  that  mill,  or  it  does 
not  exist.  He  must  spend  a  life  of  anxious  thought,  and 
ceaseless  effort,  exhausting  his  nervous  forces  till  he  often 
becomes  a  mental  wreck,  which  no  mere  privations  could 
reduce  him  to,  and  such  as  the  mere  toiler  could  never  have 
to  endure.  The  thinker  will  harness  Nature's  forces  in  a 
manner  which  will  ultimately  provide  work  for  millions.  But 
until  he  harnesses  that  power,  that  work  is  not  possible. 
And  so  it  would  be  quite  easy  to  go  on  indefinite!}'  illustrat- 


324  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

ing  the  fact  that  labor  owes  its  well-being,  almost  its  exist- 
ence, to  the  thinker.  And  you  would  deny  the  right  of  the 
thinker  to  reap  the  reward  of  his  efforts." 

"I  deny  the  right  to  profits  extorted  at  the  expense  of 
labor.  I  deny  the  right  to  a  luxury  which  others,  less  en- 
dowed by  Nature  in  their  attainments,  can  enjoy.  We  are 
all  human  beings,  made  alike,  with  powers  of  enjoyment 
alike,  with  a  life  that  is  one  and  the  same,  and  I  deny  the 
right  for  one  to  be  privileged  over  another  in  the  creature 
comforts,  which,  after  all,  is  one  of  the  main  objects  of  all 
effort  in  life.  I  deny  the  right  to  a  power  in  the  individual 
which  can  be  dishonestly  used  to  the  detriment  of  his  fel- 
lows." 

Again  the  younger  man's  feelings  had  risen  to  fever  heat. 
Again  his  feelings  ran  riot  in  his  denial. 

Alexander  Hendrie  looked  on  unmoved. 

"My  boy,"  he  said  gently,  "if  you  would  deny  all  these 
things,  then  appeal  to  your  Creator  to  make  all  men  of  equal 
capacity  in  thought,  morals,  and  muscle.  You  cannot  force 
equality  upon  a  world  where  the  Divine  Creator  has  seen 
fit  to  make  all  things  unequal.  I  tell  you  you  cannot  change 
the  principles  of  life.  Let  the  sledge  hammer  of  Socialism 
be  turned  loose,  let  it  crush  the  oppressors  of  labor  as  it 
will.  But  life  will  remain  the  same.  It  will  go  on  as  before. 
The  thinkers  will  live  in  the  luxury  you  deplore,  and  the 
toiler  will  sweat,  and  ache,  and  sometimes  live  in  misery,  as 
he  does  now.  But,  remember,  his  misery  is  no  greater  than 
the  misery  among  those  clad  in  the  purple.  There  is  no 
greater  misery  in  the  world  than  the  misery  of  the  man  or 
woman  who  can  afford  to  be  happy.  All  that  can  be  done 
is  to  better  the  lot  of  the  worker  within  given  limits.  But, 
for  God's  sake,  make  the  limit  such  as  to  leave  him  with 
incentive  sufficient  to  lift  him  from  the  ranks  in  which  he  is 
enlisted,  should  his  capacity  prove  adequate  for  promotion. 

The  force  of  the  millionaire's  simple  views  left  a  marked 
effect  upon  the  other.  There  was  something  so  definite,  yet 
so  tolerant  about  them.  Somehow  Frank  felt  that  this  man 
was  not  thinking  with  the  brain  of  the  rich  man.  He  was 
speaking  from  a  wide  and  strenuous  experience  of  life.  It 
almost  seemed  to  him  that  Alexander  Hendrie  must  have 
gone  through  a  good  deal  of  that  which  he,  Frank,  be- 


CAPITAL    AND    LABOR  325 

lievcd  to  be  the  sufferings  of  the  unjustly  treated  workers. 

"You  admit  that  the  condition  of  labor  needs  improve- 
ment?" he  demanded  sharply. 

"No  one  more  readily,"  Hendrie  replied  earnestly.  "Help 
them,  give  them  every  benefit  possible.  But  the  man  who 
would  tell  them  that  they  earn,  and  have  a  right  to  more 
than  the  market  value  of  their  daily  toil  is  a  liar!  He  is 
committing  a  crime  against  both  society  and  labor  itself." 

"Do  you  so  treat — your  labor?" 

"I  pay  him  his  market  price.  Privately  I  am  at  all  times 
ready  to  help  him.  But  my  best  sympathies  are  not  with 
the  poor  creature  who  has  no  thought  beyond  his  food,  his 
sleep,  and  the  fathering  of  numerous  offspring  which,  with- 
out regard  to  responsibility,  he  sheds  upon  the  world  in 
worse  case  than  himself.  It  is  the  man  who  will  strive  to 
rise  above  his  lot  that  has  my  sympathy.  The  man  who 
has  the  courage  to  face  disaster,  and  even  starvation,  that, 
in  however  small  a  degree,  he  may  leave  his  mark  upon  the 
face  of  the  world.  That  is  the  man  who  appeals  to  me,  and 
whom  I  am  even  now  seeking  to  help." 

Frank  rose  from  his  seat  upon  his  bed. 

"You  are  helping — now?"  he  demanded  incredulously. 

The  millionaire  smiled. 

"Maybe  you  would  not  call  it  by  that  name."  He  shook 
his  head,  and  rose  heavily  from  his  chair.  "Let  that  pass," 
he  said,  with  a  quick,  keen  glance  into  the  boy's  face.  "I 
must  get  back  to  Deep  Willows.  I  had  no  right  to  spend 
all  this  time  away.  Mrs.  Hendrie  is  ill — seriously  ill,  I  fear. 
Your  Phyllis  is  with  her,  serving  her  for  friendship's  sake. 
She  does  not  receive  even  a  market  value  for  her  toil.  The 
price  of  her  service  is  inestimable." 

"Mon— Mrs.  Hendrie  is— ill?" 

Frank's  face  blanched.  A  great  trouble  crept  into  his 
eyes.  Hendrie  noted  the  expression  closely. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply.  "She  is  to  become  a — mother. 
But  she  is  ill — and — ah,  well,  maybe  she'll  pull  through. 
It  is  in  the  hands  of  Providence."  He  sighed  with  genuine 
trouble. 

"You  say — Phyllis — is  with  her?" 

"Why,  yes.     She  has  been  with  us  for  months." 

"Has  Mon — Mrs.  Hendrie  been  ill — so  long?" 


326  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Frank's  voice  was  almost  pleading. 

"She  began  to  ail  when  she — returned  from  Toronto — 
nearly  a  year  ago." 

"A  year — ago?" 

"Yes." 

The  keen  eyes  of  the  millionaire  were  strangely  soft  as 
he  watched  the  evident  suffering  in  the  boy's  young  face. 
He  waited. 

"I "  Frank  hesitated.  Then,  with  a  sudden  impulsive 

rush,  he  blurted  out  a  request.  "Can  I — that  is,  might  I 
be  allowed  to  call  and  see — her?"  he  asked,  his  voice  hoarse 
with  sudden  emotion.  He  had  forgotten  he  desired  nothing 
at  this  man's  hands. 

"Why,  yes.  The  doors  of  Deep  Willows  are  always  open 
to  you." 

Frank  looked  up.  For  a  moment  something  very  like 
panic  swept  over  him.  His  visitor's  eyes  were  upon  him, 
watching  him  with  nothing  but  kindness  in  their  depths. 
Each  was  thinking  of  the  same  thing.  Each  knew  that  a 
battle  had  been  fought  out  between  them,  and  victory  had 
been  won.  Frank's  panic  lay  in  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
been  the  loser.  Then  his  panic  passed,  and  only  resentment, 
and  his  anxiety  for  Monica  remained.  But  the  miracle  of 
it  was  that  his  resentment  was  far  less  than  he  could  have 
believed  possible. 

Hendrie  picked  up  his  hat. 

"I'm  glad  I  came,"  he  said,  moving  toward  the  door. 

Frank  averted  his  eyes. 

"Good  night,"  he  said  brusquely,  vainly  striving  to  bolster 
his  angry  feelings. 

"Good  night,  my  boy." 

Hendrie  passed  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  carefully. 

As  he  went  Frank  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  and,  for 
a  while,  sat  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  Monica  was 
ill.  Seriously  ill.  Maybe  dangerously  ill.  Phyllis  had  said 
no  word  of  it  in  her  letters.  Not  one  word,  and  she  was 
with  her.  No  word  had  reached  him. 

He  caught  his  breath.  He  had  suddenly  realized  how 
utterly  he  had  cut  himself  out  of  Monica's  life,  the  life  of 
this  woman  who  had  been  as  a  mother  to  him. 


STRIKE    TROUBLES    SPREADING  387 


CHAPTER  X 

STRIKE  TROUBLES  SPREADING 

IT  was  a  sultry  afternoon,  one  of  those  clammy  days 
when  flies  stick  and  become  victims  of  the  drink  habit,  striv- 
ing to  quench  unnatural  thirst  at  patches  of  spilled  liquor 
on  bar-room  counters,  and,  in  a  final  frenzy,  endeavor  to 
commit  suicide  in  the  dregs  of  warm  tumblers  left  by  their 
human  fellow-sufferers. 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe,  the  proprietor  of  the  Russell  Hotel  at 
Everton,  was  propped  behind  his  counter,  smiling  with  ami- 
able idiocy  at  the  vagaries  of  two  drunken  flies  scrambling 
about  the  inner  sides  of  a  tumbler,  which  contained  the  dregs 
of  what  was  alleged  to  be  port  wine.  Abe  Hopkinson,  and 
Josh  Taylor,  the  bullet-headed  butcher,  watched  them  from 
the  other  side  of  the  bar. 

"Guess  I'd  say  it's  hereditary  in  flies,"  said  Abe,  feeling 
scientific. 

"Wot's  hered — hereditry?"  demanded  the  butcher. 

"Why— drink,"  explained  Abe. 

"Seems  it's  here — her — hereditry  in  most  folk,"  smiled 
Lionel  K.,  chewing  the  stump  of  his  cigar  vigorously  to 
conceal  his  difficulty  with  such  scientific  terms. 

The  butcher  nodded. 

"I'd  say  some  thirsts  couldn't  be  brought  on  any  other 
way,"  he  said.  "Well,  not  to  say — easy." 

Abe  grinned. 

"Guess  you  ain't  a  believer  in  that  guy  Darwin's  high- 
brow theory?" 

"Don't  know  what  it  is,"  replied  the  butcher,  lifting  the 
glass,  and  tilting  it  so  as  to  put  the  ruddy  liquid  within 
reach  of  the  volubly  buzzing  insects.  "Anyway,  I  don't 
believe  in  it.  Say — I'll  swar'  them  two  sossled  microbes  is 
holding  a  concert  to  *emselves.  See,  one  of  'em's  doing  the 
buzzin',  and  blamed  if  the  other  feller  ain't  just  wavin'  a 
leg  to  beat  the  band,  keepin'  time.  Say,  ain't  they  havin' 
a  hell  of  a  time?" 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe  struck  a  match,  tried  to  light  his  cigar 
stump,  burned  his  mustache,  and  abandoned  the  attempt. 


328  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Hell !"  he  cried  in  disgust.  Then  he  pointed  at  the  flies. 
"Say,  Josh,  jest  think  of  it.  Guess  that  splash  of  port's 
well-nigh  a  sea — leastways  a  lake  to  them.  How'd  you 
fancy  standin'  around  a  sea  of  port  wine?" 

"Guess  I'd  rather  be  settin'  in  a  boat  and  paddlin'  around 
in  it — jest  as  long  as  it  wasn't  your  port.  On  second 
thought,  I'd  rather  be  in  a  sailin'  craft.  You  see,  I'd  have 
more  hands  free."  He  pointed  at  the  flies.  "Say,  that 
feller's  quit  buzzin'.  I've  a  notion  he's  sung  hisself  hoarse. 
Mebbe  he's  got  the  hiccups.  Wai,  say,  get  that!  They're 
kissin'  each  other." 

"They're  sloshed  to  the  gills,  sure,"  grinned  Sharpe. 

"Ain't  it  queer?"  said'  Abe.  "Blamed  if  it  ain't  jest  the 
same  with  folks.  They,  git  a  drink  under  their  belts,  an5  it 
sets  'em  foolish.  They  get  blowin'  their  horns,  an'  doing 
things.  Then  they  start  singing,  an'  finish  up  shootin' — 
or  kissin'  each  other." 

Josh  desisted  from  his  efforts  at  plying  the  flies  with  more 
drink,  and  stared  round  at  his  companion. 

"I'd  jest  like  to  know  how  drink  takes  you,  Abe,"  he  cried 
in  pretended  alarm,  "fightin*  or  kissin'."  'Cause  if  it's  the 
amorous  racket,  I  quit  you  right  here.  I  just  ain't  kissin'  a 
thing.  I  quit  it  years  ago.  It's  a  fool  trick,  anyway,  an' 
physic  dopers  all  sez  it's  full  to  death  of  disease."  Then  he 
added  speculatively :  "Makes  you  sort  o'  wonder  what  kind 
o'  disease  your  kisses  'ud  hand  around.  You  don't  look  as 
if  you'd  got  a  spavin,  or  a  spring  halt.  What  *ud  you  guess, 
Lionel?" 

"Guess?"  Mr.  Sharpe  helped  himself  to  a  fresh  cigar. 
"Ther'  ain't  no  guessin'  to  it.  Jest  consumption.  That's 
all." 

He  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  on  the  drunken  flies,  and  sent 
them  tumbling  headlong  into  the  liquor.  Then  he  picked  up 
the  glass  and  washed  it. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Josh.  "That's  it — consumption — generly 
of  liquor." 

"Which  you  ain't  never  bustin'  to  pay  fer,"  cried  Abe, 
with  a  laugh.  t 

"Pay?  Wai,  I'd  smile.  Pay?  Guess  I  gone  right  on 
strike  payin'.  My  union  don't  let  its  members  pay  oftener 
than  they're  obliged.  But  we  don't  stop  non-unions  payin'. 


STRIKE    TROUBLES    SPREADING  329 

Oh,  no.     We  jest  boost  'em  right  on  an'  help  'em  pay." 

"Strike?"  said  Abe.  "Guess  it's  a  kind  o'  fashion  goin' 
around  strikin'.  Everybody's  worrying  to  quit  somethin' — 
an'  it's  most  generly  work.  But  that  ain't  no  use  to  you, 
Josh.  You  got  to  do  work  'fore  you  ken  quit  it." 

The  bullet-headed  butcher  smiled  benignly. 

"Work?  Say,  you  ain't  heard  o'  work.  Guess  you're 
one  o'  them  all-fired  capitalists,  wot  sets  around  makin' 
profit  out  o'  us  pore  fellers  who  kill  the  meat  what  fills  the 
tins  you  poison  your  customers  with,  by  reason  you've 
bought  up  a  job  line  o'  throw  outs.  Work?"  he  went  on, 
throwing  out  his  arms  in  ridiculous  burlesque  of  a  strike 
orator.  "We  are  the  fellers  who  do  the  work.  We  make 
your  profit  for  you.  We — we — we  are  the  people  wot  sets  the 
old  world  wobblin'  around  every  day.  We — us  down-trods 
who  have  to  drink  Sharpe's  rot-gut  whisky  while  you  amuse 
yourself  settin'  flies  drunk  on  port  wine!" 

At  that  moment  the  swing  door  was  thrust  open,  and  Pete 
Far-line,  the  drug-store  keeper,  and  Sid  Ellerton  pushed 
their  way  in. 

"Drink,  Lionel,"  demanded  Peter  wearily. 

But  the  hotel  proprietor  shook  his  head  and  winked  at 
Josh. 

"I  gone  on  strike — sure,"  he  said. 

Pete  looked  around  at  Josh  arid  Abe  for  enlightenment. 

"Strike?"  he  inquired.     "Guess  I  don't  get  you." 

"Why  every  feller's  strikin'  now,"  grinned  Josh. 

"Oh." 

"Quit  servin'  drinks?"  asked  Sid,  supporting  himself  on 
the  bar. 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Nope,"  he  said,  amid  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "Just  quit 
chalkin'  up  Pete's  score." 

He  obtained  the  laugh  he  required,  and  set  glasses  before 
the  newcomers. 

"Seein'  it's  that  way,  Lai,  I'll  have  to  go  on  strike  sousin' 
your  poison,"  Farline  retorted.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
others.  "Say,  fellers,  let's  strike  for  decent  liquor,  an'  when 
we  get  it  let's  strike  for  havin'  it  free.  If  we  get  that,  we'll 
have  pipes  laid  on  over  our  beds,  and  strike  again  'f  we  don't 
get  'em." 


330  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Why,  yes,"  laughed  Josh.  "Then  we'll  strike  cos  the 
rats  we  see  ain't  spiders." 

"Sure,"  nodded  Abe.  "An'  strike  like  hell  if  they  grow 
wings." 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe  held  out  his  hand  for  Pete's  money. 

"Then  when  you  wake  up — you'll  strike  anyway,"  he  said. 

Pete  handed  him  a  dollar  bill,  and  Josh's  face  purpled 
with  laughter. 

"Get  it,  boys,"  he  cried.  "Look  at  that!"  he  went  on, 
pointing  at  Sharpe.  "There  he  is,  fellers.  Ther's  the  cap- 
italist. Money  for  nothin'.  That's  what  it  is.  That's  the 
feller  we're  on  to.  Down  with  Capital,  sez  I!  Up  with 
Labor,  or  any  other  old  thing.  Say,  we're  right  on  strike, 
an', I'm  goin'  out  to  get  a  banner,  an'  form  a  parade.  I'm 
jest  goin'  to  make  speeches  to  the  populace  'bout  things. 
I'm  full  up  o'  Capital.  We're  sweated,  that's  wot  we  are. 
We  won't  stand  for  it,  neither.  Down  with  'em.  We  want 
their  blood.  We  want  the  world — with  a  fence  round  it. 
Say,  fellers,  ef  I  git  busy  that  way  will  you  ante  up  an  auto- 
mobile, an'  drink,  an'  boost  me  into  the  government  so  I  ken 
rob  folks  right,  an'  keep  but  of  the  penitentiary?" 

"Boost  you  to  hell!"  cried  Sharpe,  as  the  swing  doors 
were  pushed  open,  and  a  stranger  made  his  way  in. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  newcomer.  He  was  a  pow- 
erfully built  man  of  medium  size.  The  gray  in  his  dark  hair 
showed  beneath  his  soft  felt  hat,  and  his  eyes  were  narrow 
and  keen.  His  dress  was  the  ordinary  dress  of  the  city  man, 
and  quite  unpretentious. 

The  men  in  the  bar  eyed  him  covertly  as  he  made  his  way 
to  the  counter  and  called  for  a  "long  lager." 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe  served  him  as  though  strangers  were  an 
everyday  occurrence  in  that  bar,  but  he  was  speculating  as 
to  who  he  might  be. 

"Hot,"  said  the  man,  after  a  long  pull  at  his  schooner  of 
beer. 

"Some,"  observed  Sharpe,  handing  him  his  change. 

"Bad  road  from  Calford,"  the  stranger  said,  after  another 
journey  into  his  beer. 

"Hellish,"  returned  Sharpe,  wiping  glasses. 

"How  far  to  Deep  Willows?"  asked  the  other,  presently. 

"Nigh  seven,"  replied  Sharpe. 


STRIKE    TROUBLES    SPREADING  331 

"Across  the  river?" 

"You  don't  need  to.    Keep  to  the  right  bank." 

"Good.    Thanks." 

The  stranger  finished  his  drink,  and  made  his  way  out 
of  the  place. 

In  a  moment  the  "strikers"  were  crowding  at  the  window 
watching  his  departure.  They  saw  him  walk  across  the  road 
to  a  large  automobile  waiting  for  him.  They  saw  him  speak 
to  the  driver,  and  then  jump  into  the  seat  beside  him.  Then 
the  machine,  with  a  heavy  snort,  rolled  away. 

"Another  all-fired  capitalist,"  laughed  Josh. 

"Friend  of  Hendrie's,"  murmured  Abe. 

"Didn't  seem  Hendrie's  class,"  protested  Pete. 

Lionel  K.  Sharpe  shook  his  head. 

"I  seen  him  before,"  he  said  reflectively.  "Seems  to  me  I 
see  him  at  Calford  some  time  back.  Yes.  That's  it.  He — 
say,  gee !"  He  broke  into  a  loud  guffaw,  and  turned  to  Josh. 
"Say,  he's  the  man  for  you.  I  mind  hearing  him  shouting 
down  with  capitalists  to  a  lot  of  bum  railroaders.  That's 
when  I  saw  him." 

"You're  on  your  back,  man.  You  got  a  nightmare,"  cried 
Josh  scornfully.  "Him  drivin'  about  in  an  automobile." 

Abe  grinned. 

"That's  what  they're  out  for,'-'  he  cried  contemptuously. 
Then  he  turned  back  to  the  bar.  "Guess  we'll  have  another 
drink — anyway." 

Alexander  Hendrie  was  leaving  Angus  Moraine's  office, 
where  he  had  spent  the  early  hours  of  the  afternoon  dis- 
cussing matters  of  business  and  receiving  reports.  The  two 
men  had  also  spent  some  time  considering  the  conditions 
prevailing  on  the  railroad,  conditions  threatening  to  affect 
them  considerably.  That  a  big  strike  was  imminent  was 
sufficiently  apparent  to  them  both,  and  each  understood  the 
disastrous  possibilities  to  the  harvest  if  it  should  occur  at 
that  time. 

There  had  been  strikes  before,  but,  from  Hendrie's  confi- 
dential sources,  it  had  been  learned  that  the  forthcoming 
strike  would  be  of  a  particularly  comprehensive  nature. 
There  was  big  talk  of  sympathetic  strikes  on  the  part  of  all 
transport  workers,  and  among  those  who  were  required  to 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

handle  goods  ultimately  intended  for  transport  on  the  rail- 
road. 

The  Scot  was  troubled.  But  Hendrie  seemed  to  revel  in 
the  contemplation  of  a  great  struggle  with  Labor.  Truth 
to  tell,  he  was  actually  pleased  that  all  his  energies  would  be 
involved  in  the  forthcoming  fight.  He  would  have  less  time 
to  think,  and  he  had  no  desire  to  think  just  now. 

He  left  the  office  by  the  outer  door,  and  walked  leisurely 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  intent  upon  the  threatened 
struggle,  and  those  things  which  would  be  affected  by  it.  He 
was  calmly  considering  every  point,  every  detail  in  the  great 
game  in  which  his  life  was  spent,  which  might  be  brought 
into  contact  with  it. 

At  the  entrance  porch  of  the  house  he  paused,  and  drew 
a  bundle  of  cipher  messages  from  his  pocket.  He  read  them 
carefully.  Each  one  represented  a  financial  transaction  with 
some  well-known  Chicago  wheat  speculator,  the  completion 
of  which  would  place  his  interests  beyond  the  reach  of  dis- 
aster through  any  strikes.  He  had  only  to  wire  an  affirma- 
tive to  any  one  of  them  to  set  all  doubts  at  rest. 

However,  he  finally  returned  them  to  his  pocket  and  shook 
his  head.  No,  it  was  too  easy.  It  would  rob  him  of  all  place 
in  the  fight  to  come — if  such  fight  really  were  coming.  Be- 
sides, there  would  be  that  loss  of  profit  for  the  speculator's 
risk;  a  loss  which  his  keen,  financial  mind  begrudged.  No, 
not  yet.  There  was  time  enough.  He  would  only  yield  to 
the  temptation  of  safeguarding  the  affairs  of  the  Trust  when 
it  became  absolutely  necessary. 

He  thrust  his  hands  deeply  into  his  coat  pockets,  as  though 
to  emphasize  his  decision,  and  his  gaze  wandered  toward  the 
fair  woodland  picture  of  the  river  banks,  crowded  with  virgin 
growth.  Acres  and  acres  of  ripening  grain  lay  beyond,  and 
here  and  there,  through  breaks  in  the  foliage,  he  could  dis- 
cern the  tint  of  yellow  amid  the  paling  carpet  of  green.  The 
sight  of  it  further  hardened  his  decision. 

To  a  man  of  lesser  caliber  the  responsibility  of  that  wheat 
world  must  have  been  a  burden  to  tax  the  nerves  to  the  utter- 
most. But  to  Hendrie  it  was  scarcely  a  labor.  He  loved  this 
world  he  had  made  his,  and  it  weighed  far  less  upon  him  than 
did  the  more  trifling  worries  adding  friction  to  the  routine 
of  daily  life.  But  for  Monica's  illness,  and  a  curious  sort  of 


STRIKE    TROUBLES    SPREADING  333 

nightmare  haunting  the  back  cells  of  this  man's  memory, 
Alexander  Hendrie  must  have  been  a  perfectly  happy  man, 
reveling  in  a  success  which  had  been  his  life-long  ambition. 

Finally  he  turned  from  the  pleasant  scenes  his  thoughts 
were  conjuring.  He  was  about  to  pass  into  the  house  to. 
visit  the  woman  who  was  the  choicest  jewel  in  his  crown  of 
success.  He  moved  toward  the  doorway,  but  paused 
abruptly.  The  sweep  of  the  private  trail  on  the  north  bank 
of  the  river  had  come  within  his  view,  and  he  beheld  a  pow- 
erful automobile  rapidly  approaching  the  house. 

For  the  moment  he  believed  it  to  be  the  visit  of  one  of  his 
associates  in  business,  perhaps  from  Calford,  or  even  Winni- 
peg. Then  he  doubted.  He  was  expecting  no  one.  Anyway 
tie  would  have  been  notified  of  their  coming. 

He  left  the  porch  and  stood  out  in  the  open,  watching  the 
vehicle  curiously.  It  came  swiftly  on,  its  soft  purr  humming 
upon  the  still,  hot  air.  It  was  a  large  touring  car,  and  two 
people  were  occupying  the  front  seat.  The  rest  was  empty. 

A  few  moments  later  it  drew  up  sharply  abreast  of  him. 
A  pair  of  keen  eyes  were  staring  at  him  from  the  other  side 
of  the  chauffeur.  Hendrie  caught  their  stare,  and  a  quick, 
deep  breath  filled  his  lungs. 

For  a  while,  it  seemed  quite  a  long  time  to  the  millionaire, 
no  word  was  spoken.  Then  he  saw  the  man  on  the  other  side 
of  the  driver  jump  out  of  the  car.  Then  he  heard  him  speak. 

"You  can  go  back  up  the  trail,"  he  said  to  his  man.  "I'll 
walk  out  and  meet  you  when  I  want  you." 

Then  the  car  moved  off.  It  turned  about,  and  finally 
rolled  away.  Hendrie  saw  all  this  without  taking  any  in- 
terest. For  some  reason  his  thoughts  had  been  abruptly  car- 
ried back  into  a  dim  past,  to  a  vision  of  a  land  of  lofty,  barren 
hills,  a  land  of  drear  woods  and  shadowed  valleys,  a  land 
where  fierce  cold  ate  into  the  bones,  and  strangled  the  joy 
of  living. 

And  all  the  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  back  of  the 
powerful  figure  that  remained  turned  toward  him  until  the 
car  had  passed  out  of  sight.  Then  the  stranger  swung  about. 
His  narrow  eyes  were  alight  with  a  passion  that  seemed 
unaccountable.  He  raised  one  hand,  and  his  forefinger 
pointed  a  deadly  hatred. 

"You!    Leo!"  he  cried. 


334  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  dreary  scenes  of  the  Yukon  heights  faded  abruptly 
from  the  millionaire's  mind.  He  looked  into  that  narrow, 
evilly  expressive  face  with  a  cold,  hard  stare. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "Well?" 

There  was  no  flinching.  There  ftfas  no  surprise  even.  He 
spoke  utterly  without  emotion,  like  the  echo  of  those  ruthless 
hills  which  only  a  moment  before  he  had  contemplated. 

"So — Fve  come  up  with  you  at  last!"  cried  Austin  Ley- 
burn.  "Oh,  I  knew  I  should  do  so  some  day.  It  was  not 
possible  for  it  to  be  otherwise.  I've  searched.  I've  sounded 
every  corner  of  this  continent.  Some  day,  I  guessed  I'd  turn 
the  stone  under  which  you  were  hiding." 

For  an  instant  Hendrie's  eyes  lit.  Then  they  smiled  with  a 
contempt  for  the  mind  that  could  suggest  his  hiding. 

"Guess  that's  my  name — has  always  been  my  name." 
said,  with  an  expressive  lifting  of  the  shoulders.  "Your 
search  sounds  better  than  it  could  have  been  in  fact.  I  allow 
the  world  has  known  just  where  to  set  its  finger  on  Alexander 
Hendrie  for  many  years  now.  Say,  p'raps  you're  not  inter- 
ested in  wheat,  and  so  missed  finding  me." 

"You?    Alexander  Hendrie?"  Leyburn  cried  incredulousty. 

"Guess  that's  my  name — has  always  been  my  name." 
Hendrie  smoothed  his  mane  of  hair  with  one  steady  hand. 
"Folks  used  to  call  me  Leo,  because — of  this.  By  the  way, 
you  apparently  came  to  see  me?" 

The  face  of  Austin  Leyburn  expressed  a  devilish  hatred 
no  words  could  have  told.  It  was  a  hatred  nursed  and  fos- 
tered through  long  years  when  his  mind  and  energies  were 
wholly  turned  upon  profit  extracted  through  the  ignorance 
and  passion  of  fellow-creatures  of  inferior  mentality.  It  was 
an  atmosphere  in  which  such  passionate  bitterness  might 
well  be  fostered. 

But  the  calmness  of  his  intended  victim,  for  the  moment, 
had  a  restraining  effect.  He  felt  the  need  for  coolness. 

So  he  laughed.  There  was  no  mirth  in  his  laughter.  It 
was  a  hollow  sound  that  jarred  terribly. 

"Yes,  I  came  here  to  find  Alexander  Hendrie,  and  not — 
Leo.  I  came  to  find  the  millionaire  wheat  grower,  and  chal- 
lenge him  with  the  injustices  he  is  handing  out  to  white  agri- 
cultural labor,  whose  representative  I  am.  I  came  to  warn 
him  that  it  was  impossible  for  men  of  our  union  to  work  side 


STRIKE    TROUBLES    SPREADING  335 

by  side  with  black  labor,  which  earns  white  man's  pay.  I 
came  to  tell  him  that  if  he  persisted,  there  is  not  a  white  man 
in  the  country  will  work  for  him,  and  that  he  must  dismiss  all 
black  labor  at  once.  I  came  to  tell  Alexander  Hendrie  these 
things,  and  I  find — Leo." 

Hendrie  smiled  into  his  face. 

"You  came  to  tell  him  all  this,  and  you  found,  in  his  stead 
—Leo,  the  feller  I  guess  you're  not  particularly  well  dis- 
posed toward.  In  fact,  whom  you — rather  dislike.  Well?" 

Years  of  self-discipline  had  given  Austin  Leyburn  a  fine 
control  of  himself.  But  before  that  control  had  been  ac- 
quired he  had  been  robbed  of  all  he  possessed  in  the  world  by 
a  man  named  Leo.  He  had  been  made  to  suffer  by  this  man 
as  few  men  are  made  to  suffer,  and  after  facing  trials  and 
hardships  few  men  face  successfully.  These  sufferings  had 
ingrained  into  his  heart  a  passionate  hatred  and  desire  for 
revenge  no  acquired  control  could  withstand,  and  now  the 
torrent  of  his  bitter  animosity  broke  out. 

"Whom  I  hate  better  than  any  man  on  earth,"  Leyburn 
cried,  in  a  low,  passionate  tone.  "Listen  to  me,  Leo.  You're 
a  great  man  now.  You're  among  the  rich  of  this  continent, 
and  so  you're  the  more  worth  crushing.  We  both  find  our- 
selves in  different  positions  now.  Very  different  positions. 
You  are  powerful  in  the  control  of  huge  capital,  founded  upon 
the  gold  you  stole  from  me  twenty  years  ago  on  the  Yukon 
trail.  I — I  control  hundreds  of  thousands  of  workers  in  this 
country.  That  is  no  mean  power.  Hitherto  my  power  has 
been  exercised  in  the  legitimate  process  of  protecting  that 
labor  from  men  of  your  class.  But  from  this  moment  all 
that  is  changed.  Before  all  things  in  my  life  I  have  a  mission 
to  fulfill.  It  is  my  personal  vengeance  upon  the  man  who 
robbed  me  twenty  years  ago,  and  left  his  mistress,  bearing 
her  unborn  child,  to  starve  on  the  long  winter  trail." 

"It  is  a  lie!  She  was  not  left  to  starve.  She  was  pro- 
vided for." 

Hendrie  was  driven  to  furious  denial  by  the  taunt. 

"Ah,  that's  better!"  cried  Leyburn.  "Much  better.  I've 
cut  through  your  rough  hide.  I  say  you  left  her  to  starve — 
for  all  you  cared.  And  I've  set  myself  up  as  the  champion 
of  her  cause  as  well  as  my  own.  I'm  going  to  carry  it 
through  with  all  the  power  at  my  command.  Oh,  I  know  no 


336  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

law  will  help  me  to  my  vengeance.  That  highway  robbery  is 
just  between  ourselves.  Well,  I  guess  I  don't  need  any  one's 
help  to  avenge  it." 

Hendrie  had  himself  well  under  control  again.  He  nodded 
as  the  man  paused. 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"I  intend  to,"  Leyburn  cried,  his  face  livid  and  working 
with  the  fury  that  drove  him.  "I'm  going  back  now  to  To- 
ronto to  set  the  machinery  working.  And  that  machinery 
will  grind  its  way  on  till  you  are  reduced  to  the  dust  I  intend 
to  crush  you  into.  It  will  not  be  Labor  against  Capital.  But 
Labor  against  Alexander  Hendrie." 

"And  what  shall  I  be  doing?"  Hendrie's  eyes  were  alight 
with  something  like  amusement. 

"You — you?  I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  be  doing  when  I've 
finished.  You'll  be  wishing  to  God  you  had  never  stolen  a 
dead  man's  gold." 

Hendrie  started.  His  eyes  grew  tigerish.  But  he  re- 
mained silent.  Leyburn  saw  the  change  and  understood  it. 

"Oh,  God,  it  was  a  low-down  game,  something  about 
parallel  to  the  ghoul  on  the  battlefield  stealing  money  and 
accouterments  from  the  dead  soldiers.  Now  you  are  going 
to  pay  for  it  as  you  deserve.  Don't  make  any  mistake.  By 
God,  Leo,  I'm  going  to  smash  you !" 

Austin  Leyburn  turned  away  and  hurried  down  the  trail. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LEYBURN'S  INSPIRATION 

FEVERISH  activity  was  going  forward  in  all  the  labor 
controls  which  acknowledged  Austin  Leyburn's  leadership. 
Everywhere  was  agitation  and  ferment  among  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  workers,  while  controlling  staffs  worked  night  and 
day. 

Austin  Leyburn  had  projected  the  greatest  coup  ever  at- 
tempted in  the  country.  At  one  stroke  he  intended  to  para- 
lyze all  trade.  East  and  west,  north  and  south,  it  was  his 
purpose  to  leave  the  moving  world  at  a  standstill. 

There  were  many  nominal  causes  for  the  upheaval.    They 


LEYBURN'S    INSPIRATION  337 

could  be  found  every  day,  in  almost  every  calling,  each  one, 
in  itself,  of  a  trivial  nature,  perhaps,  but,  collectively,  an 
expression  of  tyranny  and  injustice  on  the  part  of  the  em- 
ployers that  he,  Leyburn,  and  those  others  interested  in  the 
labor  movement,  declared  could  not  be  borne  by  the  worker. 
So  the  latter  awoke  to  learn  of  the  many  injustices  he  had 
been  enduring,  and  of  which,  before,  he  had  been  utterly 
unaware. 

The  real  cause  of  the  forthcoming  struggle  lay  far  deeper. 
It  found  its  breeding  ground  in  the  fertile  realms  of  human 
nature,  the  human  nature  of  the  men  who  led  the  movement. 
They  required  self-aggrandizement  and  profit,  and  beneath 
the  cloak  of  Principle  they  hid  their  unworthy  desires  from 
the  searchlight  of  publicity.  Principle — since  democracy 
had  struggled  from  beneath  the  crushing  heel  of  the  op- 
pressor the  word  had  become  enormously  fashionable.  Its 
elasticity  had  been  its  success.  It  could  be  molded  by  the 
individual  to  suit  every  need.  But  in  these  days,  it  had  be- 
come far  more  the  hall-mark  of  hypocrisy  than  the  express- 
sion  of  lofty  ideals. 

Years  ago  Austin  Leyburn  had  declared  his  belief  that 
some  of  the  overflow  from  the  world's  pockets  could  be  di- 
verted into  his  own,  by  methods  far  less  strenuous  than  those 
of  the  great  Leo.  Since  then  he  had  endeavored  to  prove 
his  assertion. 

That  he  had  been  successful  there  could  be  no  doubt.  He 
was  far  better  equipped  with  this  world's  goods  than  he 
would  have  cared  to  proclaim  from  the  platform  to  one  of 
his  labor  audiences.  He  kept  his  private  life  hidden  by 
a  very  simple  process,  and  so  much  noise  and  bustle  did  he 
contrive  in  his  calling  that  no  one  gave  him  credit  for 
possessing  any — private  life. 

But  herein  the  world  was  mistaken.  The  life  he  displayed 
to  his  colleagues  was  simple  and  unpretentious.  He  lived 
in  a  cheap  suite  of  apartments  in  the  humbler  quarters  of 
Toronto.  He  ate  in  restaurants  where  he  rubbed  shoulders 
with  men  of  the  labor  world.  In  his  business  he  walked,  or 
rode  in  the  street  cars.  To  carry  added  conviction  his 
clothes  were  always  of  the  ready-made  order,  and  he  pos- 
sessed a  perfect  genius  for  reducing  the  immaculateness  of 

a  low,  starched  collar. 
23 


338  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  there  was  another  Austin  Leyburn  when  the  claims 
of  his  business  released  him  for  infrequent  week-ends.  He 
was  an  affluent  sort  of  country  squire.  A  man  who  reveled 
in  the  possession  of  an  ample  estate  and  splendid  mansion, 
hidden  away  in  the  remotenesses  of  a  natural  beauty  spot 
some  twenty-five  miles  outside  Toronto.  Here  he  enjoyed 
the  luxuries  and  comforts  which  in  others  were  anathema  to 
him.  His  cellar  was  well  stocked  with  wines  of  the  choicest 
vintages.  His  cigars  were  the  best  money  could  buy.  He 
possessed  a  modest  collection  of  works  of  art,  and  his  house 
was  furnished  with  all  those  things  valued  for  their  age  and 
associations. 

To  this  place  he  would  adjourn  at  long  intervals.  And  at 
such  times  even  his  name  would  be  left  behind  him  in  the 
city,  in  company  of  his  ready-made  clothing,  his  scarcely 
immaculate  collar,  and  the  memory  of  fly-ridden  restaurants, 
lest  there  should  be  a  jarring  note  to  his  enjoyment  as  he 
lounged  back  in  his  powerful  automobile,  which  was  never 
permitted  to  cross  the  city  limits. 

All  these  things  were  bought  and  paid  for  by  a  method  of 
making  money  almost  devilish  in  its  inception.  Leyburn 
was  a  gambler  on  the  stock  market.  He  gambled  in  Labor 
strikes. 

This  was  the  great  final  coup  he  now  contemplated.  He 
cared  not  one  jot  for  the  injustices  meted  out  to  labor. 
He  cared  nothing  for  the  sufferings,  the  privations  it  had  to 
endure.  Long  ago  he  and  many  others  of  his  associates  had 
learned  the  fact  that  all  strikes  more  or  less  affected  the 
financial  market.  Nor  were  they  slow  to  take  advantage 
of  it. 

A  general  transport  strike  would  send  shares  crashing  to 
bed-rock  prices;  would  send  them  tumbling  as  they  had 
never  fallen  before,  as  even  international  war  would  not 
affect  them.  And  when  they  had  fallen  sufficiently,  when,  in 
his  own  phraseology,  the  bottom  had  dropped  oat  of  the 
market,  then  he  and  his  fellow-vultures  would  plunge  their 
greedy  beaks  into  the  flesh  of  the  carcass  and  gorge  them- 
selves. Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  starving  worker  might 
return  to  his  work. 

Just  now  he  was  in  Calford  and  hard  at  work.  While  his 
subordinates  lived  in  a  whirl  of  organization,  his  it  was  to 


LEYBURN'S    INSPIRATION  339 

contrive  that  the  news  of  the  labor  troubles  reached  the 
world  at  large  in  a  sufficiently  alarming  type.  And  his 
gauge  of  the  alarm  achieved  would  be  the  state  of  the  finan- 
cial markets. 

He  had  only  that  morning  returned  from  Deep  Willows, 
and  it  was  not  until  long  after  his  mid-day  meal  that  he 
found  leisure  to  turn  his  thoughts  definitely  to  the  fresh 
plans  he  had  decided  upon,  on  his  journey  back  to  Calford. 

Now,  as  he  sat  before  his  desk,  he  picked  up  the  receiver 
of  the  telephone  and  spoke  sharply. 

"Is  Frank  Smith  in  the  office?"  he  demanded.  "Yes.  I 
said  Smith.  Oh !  Then  tell  him  to  come  to  me  at  once." 

He  replaced  the  instrument  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
He  felt  that  Fate  had  played  an  extraordinarily  pleasant 
trick  upon  him.  In  his  cynical  way  he  admitted  grudgingly 
that  for  once  she  had  been  more  than  kind.  The  chance  of  it. 
A  loose  end.  Yes,  he  had  actually  found  himself  with  a  loose 
end,  and  had  promptly  decided  to  fill  up  the  time  with  a  visit 
to  the  greatest  wheat  grower  in  the  country  in  the  interests  of 
his  new  toy,  the  Agricultural  Labor  Society.  It  had  led  him 
— whither  ? 

His  narrow  eyes  smiled.  But  the  smile  died  almost  at  its 
birth,  lost  in  a  bitter  hatred  for  the  man  who  had  robbed  him 
upon  the  Yukon  trail  twenty  years  ago. 

The  door  of  his  room  opened  and  Frank  hurried  in.  His 
manner  was  nervous,  quite  unlike  his  usual  manner.  He  was 
changed  in  appearance,  too.  Nor  was  it  a  change  for  the 
better.  He  looked  older.  His  eyes  were  painfully  serious. 
His  dress  wore  an  air  of  neglect.  Whatever  else  the  work  of 
a  labor  organizer  had  done  for  him  there  was  no  outward 
sign  of  improvement. 

"You  sent  for  me?"  he  demanded,  a  look  of  nervous  ex- 
pectation in  his  serious  eyes. 

"Sure."  Leyburn  nodded.  His  manner  was  final.  It  was 
also  the  manner  of  an  employer  to  a  subordinate.  The  inti- 
macy between  these  two  had  somehow  died  out. 

Leyburn  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully,  and  the  superiority  of 
his  position  was  displayed  therein.  Frank  experienced  a 
feeling  of  irritation.  Leyburn  frequently  irritated  him  now. 
When  they  had  first  met,  the  boy's  enthusiasm  had  made  him 
regard  this  leader  as  something  in  the  nature  of  a  god.  Since 


340  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

then  he  had  discovered  a  good  deal  of  clay  about  the  feet  of 
his  deity. 

"Guess  I'm  going  to  hand  you  a  change  of  work,  boy," 
Leyburn  said  at  last,  his  manner  deliberately  impressive. 
"Say,  you  weren't  a  big  hit  with  the  railroaders."  Frank 
winced  perceptibly,  and  the  other  saw  that  his  thrust  had 
gone  home.  "Oh,  I  don't  blame  you  a  hell  of  a  lot,"  he  went 
on  patronizingly.  "You've  never  been  a  railroader — that's 
where  it  comes  in.  I'd  say  the  feller  that  talks  to  those  boys 
needs  to  be  one  of  'em.  We  got  plenty  without  you,  and — 
so  I'm  going  to  hand  you  a  change,  to  the  farming  racket." 
Then  he  smiled.  "Guess  you're  a  bit  of  a  mossback  yourself. 
You'll  understand  those  boys,  and  be  able  to  talk  'em  their 
own  way." 

Frank's  face  had  flushed  with  the  poignancy  of  his  feelings 
over  his  failure.  He  felt  even  more  the  crudeness  of  this 
man's  manner. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said  briefly. 

There  was  none  of  his  earlier  enthusiasm  in  his  assurance. 
Truth  to  tell,  something  of  his  enthusiasm  had  died  on  the 
night  of  his  failure  at  the  railroaders'  meeting,  and  it  had 
died  after  Alexander  Hendrie  had  left  him. 

"That's  right,"  said  Leyburn,  with  some  geniality.  "I 
don't  like  your  'cocksures.'  Give  me  the  man  out  to  do  his 
damnedest.  You'll  make  good,  lad — this  time.  Say,  I'm 
going  to  set  you  chasing  up  the  work  among  the  farms.  See 
it's  going  ahead.  Ther's  men  out  to  do  the  gassing.  You'll 
just  have  to  see  they  gas  right.  Get  me?  There's  going  to 
be  a  strike  around  harvest — this  year.  It's  going  to  happen 
along  with  the  transporters." 

Frank  was  startled.  There  was  to  have  been  no  serious 
movement  this  year  on  the  agricultural  side.  Only  prepara- 
tions. Why  this  sudden  change  of  plans? 

"This  year?"  he  said. 

"That's  how  I  said,"  returned  Leyburn  dryly. 

"But  I  thought- 

"I'll  do  the  thinking,  boy,"  said  Leyburn  quickly.  Then 
he  grinned.  "Guess  I've  done  most  of  it  already.  You're 
on?" 

"Why,  yes."  Frank  was  perplexed.  Nor  had  he  any 
definite  objection. 


LEYBURN'S    INSPIRATION  341 

"Good."  Leyburn  picked  his  teeth  with  a  match.  Then 
he  went  on:  "You'll  make  your  headquarters  at  Everton. 
That's  where  Hendrie's  place  is.  I've  got  men  at  work  there. 
They've  been  there  quite  a  while.  We're  taking  up  that  nig- 
ger question  there,  and  punching  it  home  for  all  we're  worth. 
It's  a  good  lever  for  running  up  wages  on.  The  wheat  men 
will  be  easy — their  crops  are  perishable.  If  Hendrie  don't 
squeal  quick,  he's  got  miles  of  wheat  growing,"  he  said  signifi- 
cantly. "Of  course  he's  only  one.  But  he's  good  to  work  on. 
Now,  just  watch  around  there.  Don't  do  a  heap  of  big  talk. 
The  other'll  do  that.  You'll  go  around  the  farms,  the  smaller 
ones,  and  do  some  private  talk.  You'll  superintend  the 
whole  of  that  section.  Guess  there's  a  hundred  and  more 
farms  in  it.  I'll  hand  you  a  schedule  of  'em." 

As  Leyburn  finished  speaking,  Frank  stirred  uneasily. 

"Must  I  go  on  this  work?"  he  asked  hesitatingly. 

Leyburn  looked  up  sharply.  There  was  a  sparkle  in  his 
eyes. 

"Sure,"  he  said  coldly. 

"Couldn't  you  hand  me  another  section?"  Frank  asked, 
after  an  awkward  pause,  while  Leyburn  regarded  his  averted 
face  closely. 

"Why?"  The  demand  rapped  out.  It  was  full  of  a  sud- 
den, angry  distrust.  Leyburn  was  not  in  the  habit  of  having 
his  orders  questioned  in  his  own  office. 

But  Frank's  hesitation  and  nervousness  vanished  under  the 
other's  intolerable  manner.  Leyburn's  attitude  was  not  one 
he  was  prepared  to  submit  to.  He  felt  it  would  not  have  been 
displayed,  but  for  his  failure  with  the  railroaders.  If  that 
was  the  sort  of  man  Leyburn  was — well 

"I  can't  do  the  work  you  want  me  to,  round  about  Deep 
Willows,"  he  said,  with  deliberate  coldness. 

"Why?"  Again  came  the  monosyllabic  inquiry.  But  this 
time  it  was  in  genuine  surprise,  and  possessed  no  resentment, 

Frank  found  it  easier  to  explain  in  consequence. 

"You  see,  Mon — Mrs.  Hendrie  is — is  my  foster  mother," 
he  said  simply.  "I  owe  her  nothing  but  good.  I  can  never 
tell  you  of  the  sacrifices  she  has  made  for  me,  and  of  her  de- 
votion. I  shouldn't  like  to  hurt  her." 

Leyburn  stared.  There  was  no  resentment  in  him  now — 
only  amazement. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


"Then— then— Hendrie  is- 


"Hendrie  is  the  man  who  sent  me  to  the  penitentiary  for 
five  years." 

Frank  turned  away  as  he  made  the  admission.  Leyburn 
emitted  a  low  whistle. 

"You  see,"  Frank  went  on.  "I  had  told  you  my  story 
without  telling  you  any  names.  I  should  not  tell  you  now, 
only  that  it  becomes  necessary  to  explain  my  reasons  for  re- 
fusing to  accept  the  work." 

But  Leyburn  was  not  listening.  He  suddenly  pointed  at 
a  chair. 

"Sit,  boy,"  he  cried,  his  manner  suddenly  assuming  a 
pleasant  geniality.  "Sit  right  down — and  let's  talk  this  thing 
out." 

Frank  was  glad  enough  to  accept  the  invitation.  He  owed 
this  man  a  good  deal  in  spite  of  his  slight  change  of  feelings 
towards  him.  Nor  was  he  one  to  shrink  from  paying  his 
debts. 

"It's  the  queerest  thing  ever,"  Leyburn  went  on  thought- 
fully, as  Frank  drew  up  a  chair.  Then,  in  answer  to  the 
other's  look  of  inquiry :  "Why,  that  I  should  chose  you  to  go 
and  deal  with  our — organization — in  Hendrie's  neighbor- 
hood. Seems  almost  like  Fate  pitching  him  into  your  hands 
for  what  he's — done  to  you.  He's  hurt  you,  and  now — 
now,  why,  your  turn's  coming  along." 

"But  curiously  enough,  I  have  no  desire  for  any  retalia- 
tion," said  Frank  simply.  "One  time  I  might  have  been 
pleased  to — hurt  him.  But  now — well — somehow  I  seem  to 
understand  what  drove  him  to  it,  and — I  don't  blame  him  so 
much.  Besides " 

"Besides  ?"    Leyburn's  eyes  were  watchful. 

"That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  fit  in  with  my  ideas  of  Brother- 
hood," Frank  concluded  simply. 

Leyburn  nodded.  His  expression  had  become  absurdly 
gentle. 

"Maybe  you're  right,  boy,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I'm  an  old 
campaigner.  Guess  I'm  a  bit  hardened." 

"That's  natural,  too."  Frank  was  glad  at  the  change  in 
the  man.  He  was  glad,  too,  that  he  could  agree  with  him. 

"But  there's  no  real  hurt  coming  to  Hendrie,  if — he's  rea- 
sonable," Leyburn  went  on  thoughtfully.  "You  see,  boy, 


LEYBURN'S    INSPIRATION  343 

maybe  it  looks  that  way,  but  this  process  of  ours  is  only  a 
sharpish  way  of  teaching  these  monopolists  that  they've  got 
to  remember  there  are  other  folks  in  the  world  who  need  to 
live.  That  there  is  such  a  thing  as  brotherhood.  I'd  say 
Hendrie's  a  pretty  good  man,  but  he's  headstrong — as  you 
know.  He  won't  be  told  a  thing.  All  we  need  from  him  is 
his  example,  showing  all  those  smaller  folk  he  understands 
the  needs  of  humanity,  and  is  prepared  to  do  his  slice  for  it. 
What  are  we  going  to  do?  Why,  when  the  time  comes,  the 
time  most  vital  to  him,  we're  going  to  show  him  he's  depend- 
ent on  us,  and  needs  to  treat  us  right.  That's  all.  If  he 
treats  us  right,  then  there's  no  harm  done.  This  war — you 
hate  the  word — can  be  run  on  peaceful  lines  if  both  parties 
are  not  yearning  to  scrap.  All  we've  got  to  do  is  to  be 
ready  to  scrap.  You  won't  be  hurting  Mrs.  Hendrie.  You 
won't  be  hurting  a  soul.  But  you'll  just  stand  by  to  defend 
labor  if  they're  out  to  hurt  us.  Get  me?" 

Frank  nodded. 

"Yes.  It  is  right  enough  what  you  say,"  he  replied.  "I 
know  all  that.  But  it's  this  strike,  and  all  the  damage  it  does, 
makes  me  feel  sick  about  it." 

Ley  burn  laughed. 

"If  I  know  Hendrie,  there'll  be  no  strike.  All  we've  got  to 
do  is  to  be  ready  for  one.  Say,  lad,  you're  a  bit  sensitive.  I 
tell  you  we're  just  going  to  bluff  Hendrie  into  doing  what  he 
doesn't  want  to  do.  That's  giving  a  living  wage  to  folk  who 
work  for  him.  He'll  give  it  when  the  bluff's  put  up." 

"You  think  so?"  Frank's  eagerness  sounded  pleasantly 
in  Leyburn's  ears. 

"Sure.  They  all  do — in  the  end.  Wheat  men  are  easier 
than  railroad  companies.  Their  crops  are  perishable. 
There'll  be  no  real  strike.  So  Mrs.  Hendrie's  your — foster 
mother.  Say,  it  beats  hell." 

"Yes."  Frank  looked  up.  "She's  a  sort  of  aunt,  too,"  he 
said  unguardedly,  flushing  as  he  remembered  that  he  could 
claim  no  real  relationship  with  any  one.  "Her  sister  was  my 
— mother.  I  don't  know  who  my  father  was — exactly.  I 
know  he  was  called  Leo,  but " 

"Leo !"  Leyburn  started.  It  was  with  difficulty  he  could 
keep  himself  from  shouting  the  name.  "Leo — you  said? 
Then  you  are "  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  tell 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Frank  lie  was  Hendrie's  son.  But  a  sudden  inspiration 
checked  the  impulse. 

"I  am — what?"  demanded  Frank,  caught  by  the  other's 
excitement. 

But  Leyburn  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Not  necessarily,  though,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of 
thoughtfulness.  "I  was  going  to  say  Italian.  Maybe  Leo 
was  just  his  first  name." 

Frank  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I'm  Italian,  though,"  he  said 
unsuspiciously.  "You  see,  Mrs.  Hendrie  is  American,  as,  of 
course,  was  my  mother.  She  had  been  an  actress.  Audrey 
Thorne,  I  think  she  called  herself,  but  her  real  name  was 
Elsie  Hanson.  Still,  these  details  can't  interest  you,"  he 
finished  up  a  little  drearily. 

Leyburn  stared  out  of  the  window  for  some  moments.  He 
was  thinking  hard.  He  was  piecing  all  he  had  just  learned 
together,  and  striving  to  see  how  he  might  turn  it  all  to  ac- 
count in  the  purpose  he  had  in  his  mind.  If  he  had  been 
amazed  before  on  learning  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  in- 
jured Frank — amazed,  and  fiendishly  delighted,  it  was  noth- 
ing to  his  feelings  now.  Hendrie,  Frank's  father  !  Audie's 
son !  Audie !  Yes,  more  than  ever  Frank  must  be  tnlisted  in 
this  work.  It  would  delight  his,  Leyburn's,  revengeful  na- 
ture if  Hendrie  could  be  made  to  suffer  through  his  own  son. 
It  was  a  good  thought,  and  very  pleasant  to  him. 

He  turned  a  smiling,  kindly  face  upon  his  victim. 

"It's  all  devilish  hard  luck  on  you,  boy — to  be  born,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking,  without  father  or  mother.  The  world 
certainly  owes  you  a  big  debt.  A  debt  so  big  you'd  wonder 
how  it  could  ever  pay  it.  But  the  world  has  its  own  little 
ways  of  doing  things.  It's  sometimes  got  a  queer  knack." 

Frank  shook  his  head.     His  smile  was  tinged  with  sadness. 

"I  don't  seem  to  feel  that  way  either,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
don't  seem  to  feel  any  one  owes  me  anything.  Maybe  I  did 
a  while  back,  but  I  don't  now." 

"Not  even  Hendrie?" 

Frank  shook  his  head  seriously. 

"Least  of  all — Hendrie.  I  rather  fancy  he's  been  paid  all 
he  can  bear  for  what  he  did  to  me." 

Leyburn  sighed  with  pretended  sympathy. 


LEYBURN'S    INSPIRATION  345 

"You're  a  good  boy,"  he  said  kindly.  "Too  good  for  the 
hard  knocks  life  likes  handing  around.  Maybe  you'll  get — 
compensation.  However,"  he  went  on,  sitting  up,  and  as- 
suming a  business-like  alertness,  "we've  got  to  put  this  busi- 
ness through.  We've  got  to  make  these  people  give  a  fair 
wage  to  their  workers,  a  wage  that  will  leave  them  a  margin 
of  comfort  and  happiness  in  a  dreary  sort  of  life.  Nigger 
labor  is  cutting  them  out,  and  it  can't  be  tolerated.  We're 
not  out  to  injure  these  employers.  By  God,  we're  not  r 
We're  out  with  as  good  a  purpose  by  them  as  any  church 
parson.  That's  what  I  can't  get  folks  to  see.  Our  methods 
may  be  rough,  but  the  end  justifies  it.  They  are  our  only 
ways  of  doing  it.  I  tell  you,  boy,  in  this  fight  we  are  having, 
of  man  against  himself — and  that's  what  it  amounts  to — • 
we  have  got  to  put  all  sentiment  aside.  Our  duty  lies  clear 
before  us.  And  when  the  war  is  over,  Hendrie,  and  all  men 
like  him,  will  be  the  first  to  see  the  righteousness  of  our  cause 
— and  thank  us.  We  take  out  a  tooth,  boy,  because  it  aches, 
and  it  is  painful  to  do  it,  but  it  leaves  us  with  everlasting 
peace.  You  don't  feel  you  can  do  this  work  I  want  you  to 
do?  Well,  I  won't  press  it.  But" — he  turned  a  sidelong 
glance  upon  the  other's  ingenuous  face,  now  so  expressive  of 
the  struggle  going  on  within  his  simple  mind — "but  I  think 
the  teaching  for  Hendrie  would  have  come  well  from  you. 
Yes,  it  surely  would."  He  smiled.  "Good  for  evil,  eh?  And 
it  is  for  his  good.  It  is  almost  a  duty — feeling  as  you  do.  He 
is  a  good  man,  but — passionate.  And  his  passions  run  away 
with  him.  Seems  to  me  it  would  be  good  to  point  the  right 
road  to  him.  Then,  too,  you  understand  his  kind.  S'pose 
I  threw  a  hard-shouting,  leather-lunged  hobo  at  him — we 
wouldn't  get  so  good  a  result.  Not  by  a  lot.  It  would  be 
doubling  the  risk  of  trouble.  Well,  where  would  you  like  to 
work — instead  ?" 

Frank  'rose  from  his  seat  and  began  to  pace  the  room. 
Leyburn  silently  watched  him.  The  smile  behind  his  eyes  was 
well  hidden.  He  knew  his  man.  He  felt  it  to  be  hard  work 
persuading  him,  but  it  was  worth  while. 

At  last  Frank  abruptly  came  to  a  stand  before  him. 

"I'll  do  the  work,"  he  cried,  with  a  gulp.  "I  tell  you,  Ley- 
burn,  I'd  rather  do  anything  else,  but  I — I  believe,  as  you  say, 
it's  my  duty  to  do  this.  Yes,  I'll  go,  and  I'll  do  my  very  best. 


346  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  I  warn  you,  if  trouble  threatens  Mrs.  Hendric,  directly 
or  indirectly,  I'll  do  my  best  to  help  her,  if  all  labor  in  the 
world  has  to  suffer  for  it." 


CHAPTER  XII 

HENDRIE  SELLS 

ALEXANDER  HENDRIE'S  mood  was  one  of  doubt  and  almost 
indecision,  as  he  rode  over  the  hard,  white  trail  intersecting 
the  miles  of  wheat  surrounding1  Deep  Willows.  He  had  spent 
an  unpleasant  morning  with  his  manager.  He  had  listened 
to  bad  reports  of  Monica's  condition,  and  added  to  these  were 
many  unpleasant  reflections  upon  the  visit  of  the  man  Tug — 
whom  he  now  knew  to  be  the  great  labor  leader — Austin  Ley- 
burn — to  Deep  Willows. 

Now  that  the  harvest  was  drawing  near  he  found  himself 
surrounded  by  a  wonderful  picture  of  golden  glory.  Under 
ordinary  circumstances  he  must  have  reveled  in  the  sight,  for, 
before  all  things,  the  growing  of  wheat  represented  the  chief 
factor  in  his  life.  But  now  he  found  little  enough  pleasure 
in  the  contemplation  of  an  abundant  harvest.  His  mind  was 
beset  with  so  many  things  which  could  rob  him  of  such  joy, 
and  it  was  almost  as  if  the  brilliant  sunlight,  shining  on  the 
wealth  of  gold  about  him,  had  been  obscured  by  storm  clouds 
of  a  drab,  depressing  hue. 

Angus  Moraine's  tale  of  trials  and  portentous  happenings 
had  been  a  long  one.  The  unrest  among  the  hundreds  of 
workers  employed  upon  the  farms  was  paralyzing  efficient 
work.  The  imported  black  labor  was  both  unsatisfactory  as 
regards  work,  and  a  constant  source  of  worry  in  its  relation 
with  the  white.  Only  the  night  before  a  fierce  encounter  had 
occurred  between  the  two  colors,  which,  but  for  his  own 
timely  intervention,  must  have  ended  in  bloodshed,  if  not  in 
some  sort  of  deliberate  lynching  of  six  drunken  blacks.  He 
warned  Hendrie  with  the  utmost  solemnity  that  he  was  riding 
for  a  serious  fall,  and  that  unless  the  matter  was  looked  into 
at  once,  the  threatened  strike  would  be  child's  play  to  the 
brutal  warfare  that  was  daily  brewing. 

Thus,  at  Angus's  earnest  request,  Hendrie  had  set  out  on 
a  tour  of  inspection  of  some  of  the  remoter  homesteads  on 


HENDRIE    SELLS  347 

the  estate.  He  was  going  to  see  for  himself  and  test  the  at- 
titude of  his  army  of  workers.  The  truth  of  his  manager's 
statements  was  quickly  brought  home  to  him.  He  soon  dis- 
covered a  definite  antagonism  toward  himself  in  the  white 
camps,  which  left  him  no  room  for  doubt.  But  it  seemed 
otherwise  among  the  blacks.  These  men  seemed  contented 
enough.  The  threat  of  their  white  fellows  seemed  to  have 
left  them  quite  undisturbed.  Perhaps,  since  their  numbers 
were  rapidly  being  augmented,  they  felt  strong  enough  to 
deal  adequately  with  any  possible  attack.  He  knew  the 
sanguine  nature  of  the  nigger  well  enough  to  realize  that  his 
arrogance  was  not  easily  overshadowed  by  physical  fear  of 
his  fellows. 

In  his  heart,  however,  Alexander  Hendrie  knew  that  Angus 
was  right,  and  he  was  wrong.  There  was  certainly  danger 
of  a  sort  ahead.  Perhaps  even  a  danger  not  to  be  trifled 
with.  But  this  did  not  weigh  seriously  with  him.  He  felt 
that  his  interests  were  sufficiently  safeguarded,  and  that 
which  he  was  doing  was  perfectly  within  his  rights.  He 
could  not  see  that  defying  a  prejudice  was  to  commit  any 
crime  against  the  canons  of  labor.  Besides — and  herein  lay 
the  secret  of  his  obstinate  determination  to  adhere  to  his 
policy — labor  was  trying  to  "bluff"  him.  He  would  call  the 
"bluff"  of  any  man.  He  simply  would  not  submit.  Nor,  if 
blood  were  spilled,  would  he  hold  himself  responsible. 

But  this  was  only  a  part  of  that  which  was  troubling  him. 
Far  more  serious  than  all  question  of  labor,  the  man  Ley- 
burn's  personal  threats  stood  out  in  his  mind.  He  did  not 
fear  him  personally.  It  was  not  in  the  master  of  Deep  Wil- 
lows to  fear  any  man.  But  he  understood  the  scheming 
mind  of  the  labor  leader,  and  it  certainly  troubled  him  as  to 
the  direction  his  attack  would  take. 

He  would  attack.  There  was  no  question  of  that.  If  it 
were  through  labor,  Hendrie  really  had  little  with  which  to 
concern  himself.  That  was  prepared  for.  But  he  doubted 
if  it  would  come  through  that  quarter.  Elsewhere  he  knew 
there  were  many  vulnerable  spots  in  his  armor  of  defence. 

His  alert  mind  was  not  slow  to  fix  upon  his  weakest  spot. 
It  was  his  home-life.  His  passionate  love  for  Monica  guided 
him  unerringly  to  the  one  point  in  which  he  dreaded  an  at- 
tack most.  This  man  Tug,  as  he  knew  him,  was  not  one  of 


348  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  bolder  class  of  antagonists.  He  would  not  openly  assail 
him  before  the  world.  That  could  never  be  his  way.  He 
would  attack  subtly,  and  in  the  direction  he  was  sure  of 
hurting  most.  Hendrie  himself  knew  where  he  could  be  hurt 
most.  Did  Leyburn? 

Something  very  like  despair  gripped  him,  as,  in  fancy,  he 
pictured  Monica's  scorn  and  lo-athing  for  the  man  who  was 
her  Frank's  father,  against  the  man  for  his  apparent  deser- 
tion of  her  dead  sister,  Audie.  This  was  the  shadow  that 
had  oppressed  him  ever  since  that  fateful  day  on  which  he 
had  learned  that  Frank  was  his  own  son.  This  was  the 
burden  he  had  borne  as  the  just  punishment  for  that  crime 
he  had  committed  so  long  ago.  Now  the  hand  of  Fate  still 
seemed  to  be  moving  on,  and  he  felt  instinctively  that  the 
woman  he  loved  better  than  life  itself  must  soon  be  told, 
and  he  must  bow  before  the  sentence  her  gentle  lips  might 
pass.  He  could  not  hope.  He  dared  not.  He  knew  he  was 
at  the  mercy  of  a  merciless  enemy  who  would  have  no 
scruples  as  to  how  he  accomplished  his  end. 

His  busy  brain  traveled  on  and  on,  over  possibilities  and 
impossibilities.  His  imagination  had  become  feverishly  ac- 
tive, and  its  hideous  limits  seemed  unbounded. 

But  amid  it  all  he  still  found  it  possible  to  draw  one 
slight  satisfaction,  and  it  was  a  true  index  to  his  curiously 
savage  manhood. 

It  was  little  enough,  but  it  was  the  one  bright  spot  on  his 
drab  horizon.  He  found  it  possible  to  draw  satisfaction 
from  the  memory  of  that  robbery  of  Tug's  gold.  Yes,  he 
had  many  enough  regrets  for  things  he  had  done  in  those 
by-gone  days,  but  he  was  truly  glad  of  that  passionate, 
almost  insane  moment  of  craving  when  he  had  robbed  Austin 
Leyburn  of  all  he  possessed  in  the  world. 

Yes,  it  was  good — but — no,  he  had  not  robbed  him  of 
quite  all.  He  had  left  him — his  life.  Well,  Austin1  Leyburn 
had  best  be  careful  what  he  did.  Monica's  love  was  more 
precious  to  him  than  perhaps  Leyburn's  gold  had  been  to 
the  wretched  man  who  had  so  laboriously  wrested  it  from 
the  bosom  of  mother  earth. 

His  moments  were  very  dark  as  his  horse  made  its  way 
back  to  Deep  Willows.  They  were  so  dark  that  they 
seemed  almost  impossible  of  ever  lightening.  Then,  as  so 


HENDRIE    SELLS  349 

often  happens  in  the  midst  of  the  blackest  moments,  there 
came  a  flash  of  revealing  light.  It  was  the  desperate  cour- 
age of  the  man  suddenly  rising  superior  to  the  false  cow- 
ardice inspired  by.  his  love  for  his  wife.  Why  should  he  not 
forestall  Ley  burn?  Why  not  tell  her  his  story  himself? 
Why  not  make  a  desperate  fight  to  rid  himself  for  ever  of  the 
haunting  shadow  of  that  painful  past?  If  lose  her  he  must, 
it  would  be  far  better  to  lose  her  with  the  truth,  the  simple, 
plain  facts  upon  his  lips,  than  to  be  found  guilty  of  endeav- 
oring to  wilfully  deceive. 

The  complexity  of  this  man  was  extraordinary.  But 
whatever  his  faults  or  virtues,  and  the  latter  were  few 
enough,  his  mainspring  of  character  was  a  colossal  courage 
that  could  not  long  be  held  under  by  baser  considerations. 
He  might  rob,  as  he  had  done,  he  might  even  slay,  yet 
through  it  all  he  would  prove  his  manhood  when  the  time 
for  expiation  came.  Whatever  Austin  Leyburn's  estimate  of 
Alexander  Hendrie  he  would  find  himself  pitted  against  a 
superior  manhood  when  he  drew  his  sword  upon  him. 

Reaching  the  home  farm,  Hendrie  dismounted  and  left  his 
horse  with  the  waiting  groom.  He  hurried  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  house  and  encountered  Angus  on  his  way  from 
his  office.  The  manager  stopped  him. 

"Been  around?"  he  inquired,  without  any  lightness. 

Hendrie  nodded.     He  was  in  a  hurry. 

"Sure,"  he  said. 

"Well,  what  d'you  think  of  things?" 

The  Scot's  persistence  was  not  easy  to  fling  off. 

"Can't  stop  now,"  Hendrie  exclaimed.  "I'll  tell  you 
later." 

But  Angus  had  not  yet  finished. 

"Say."  He  paused  deliberately.  "Guess  I've  got  more 
than  I'm  yearning  to  lose  in  the  Trust,  so  I  guess  there's  no 
offence  in  what  I  need  to  say.  If  you'll  listen  to  me,  Mr. 
Hendrie,  I  say,  for  God's  sake  sell,  and  sell  quick !" 

Hendrie  smiled  at  the  other's  earnestness. 

"I'm  going  to,"  he  said  easily.  "I'm  going  right  into  Cal- 
ford  to  fix  it  to-night." 

He  passed  on,  flinging  his  final  words  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  stern-eyed  Scot,  who  promptly  continued  his  way  with  a 
load  lifted  from  his  money-loving  heart. 


350  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

But  the  road  Hendrie  had  set  himself  to  face  seemed  beset 
with  obstruction.  At  the  house  he  encountered  Doctor 
Fraser,  who  had  been  impatiently  awaiting  his  return.  His 
news  was  written  in  his  anxious  face,  and  the  millionaire  read 
it  before  he  opened  his  lips. 

"Trouble?"  demanded  Hendrie  shortly,  as  the  man  de- 
tained him. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Hendrie  has  had  a  bad  night.  And — there 
are  signs  I  don't  like.  I  want  you  to  have  another  nurse  at 
once.  You  see,  Miss  Raysun  is  admirable  for  helping  to  keep 
our  patient's  spirits  up,  and  all  that,  but  I  want  a  trained 
eye  to  be  on  the  watch  all  the  time.  There  are  developments 
I  am  afraid  of.  If  they  come  along  we  shall  have  to  act  very 
promptly." 

"Danger?"    The  millionaire's  face  was  tensely  set. 

"Oh,  not  yet.  Not  yet.  I  hope  there  won't  be,  but — we 
must  be  prepared." 

In  the  doctor's  anxious  face  there  was  none  of  the  confi- 
dence his  words  expressed,  and  Hendrie  was  in  no  wise  de- 
ceived. 

"Can  I  see  her?"  he  inquired  sharply. 

"Ye-es.  I  see  no  objection,"  the  other  returned  cau- 
tiously. "All  I  ask  is  that  you  keep  her  from  all  excitement. 
That  is  imperative.  I  think  it  will  do  her  good  to  see  you. 
Only  be  careful." 

Hendrie  waited  for  no  more.  He  pushed  his  way  through 
the  glass  entrance  doors,  and  hurried  upstairs  and  along 
the  softly  carpeted  corridor  to  his  wife's  sick  room.  At  the 
door  he  paused  for  a  moment  before  he  knocked.  His  heart 
was  beating  furiously.  Doctor  Fraser's  news  had  disturbed 
him  far  more  than  his  outward  seeming  had  admitted. 

Pyllis  opened  the  door  to  him.  When  she  saw  who  it  was 
she  drew  aside  to  allow  him  to  pass  in.  Then,  as  she  heard 
Monica's  glad  cry  from  the  bed,  discreetly  withdrew,  and 
closed  the  door. 

In  three  strides  Hendrie  was  at  Monica's  side,  and  the 
next  moment  her  head  was  pillowed  upon  his  shoulder,  with 
his  powerful  arm  supporting  her,  as  he  seated  himself  upon 
the  downy  softness  of  the  bed. 

"My  poor  Mon,"  he  said  gently,  as  he  looked  down  into 
the  pale,  worn  face  of  the  sick  woman.  "I've  just  seen 


HENDRIE    SELLS  351 

Doc  Fraser,  who  tells  me  you've  had  another  bad  night." 

Monica  nestled  closer  to  this  great  strong  man  whom  she 
almost  worshipped. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  gazing  up  into  his  face  in  almost 
pathetic  appeal.  "It  is  the  nights  that  are  worst.  It's — 
it's  too  dreadful.  The  moment  night  comes  I  am  haunted 
by  dreadful  waking  dreams.  There  is  no  peace — none  what- 
ever. Every  dreadful  thing,  every  painful  moment  I  have 
ever  endured  in  my  life  seems  to  rise  up  and  mock  at  me. 
Sometimes  I  feel  I  shall  never  sleep  again.  And  yet  I  sup- 
pose I  do  sleep  and  don't  know  it,  for  the  dreams  go  on  and 
on  until  daylight  comes.  Oh,  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  the 
matter  with  me.  This  dreadful  sort  of  nightmare  I  think  is 
killing  me.  If  only  I  were  in  pain,  if  only  I  could  feel  some- 
thing, I  believe  I  could  bear  it  more  easily.  Oh,  I  wish  it 
would  end." 

For  a  moment  Hendrie  had  no  answer.  Every  word  Mon- 
ica had  uttered  left  a  stab  in  his  aching  heart.  He  knew,  as 
Phyllis  knew,  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble.  He  knew,  no  one 
knew  better,  that  he,  and  he  alone,  was  its  cause.  Her  nerv- 
ous system  had  been  driven  to  the  breaking  point  more  than  a 
year  ago,  and  his  had  been  the  hand  that  had  driven  it.  His 
mind  went  back  to  young  Frank  and  his  own  visit  to  him. 
It  had  seemed  to  promise  well.  Frank  had  desired  to  see 
Monica.  But — he  had  not  yet  done  so.  He  knew  that 
Frank,  the  sight  of  him  alone,  would  go  far  to  banishing  the 
tortures  of  this  woman's  nerves. 

He  stifled  his  feelings,  and  vainly  endeavored  to  cheer  her. 

"I  think  it  would  do  you  good  to  go  away  to  the  sea,  or 
the  mountains,  Mon,"  he  said,  in  his  lightest  manner.  "It 
could  be  easily  fixed,  if  the  Doc.  says  you  can  go.  A  special 
train,  no  stop  anywhere.  What  do  you  think?" 

But  Monica  only  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  Deep  Willows,  and  Phyl,  and  you," 
she  said  plaintively.  "The  happiest  moments  of  my  life  have 
been  spent  here.  I  just  never  want  to  see  Winnipeg  ever 
again.  Nor  Toronto.  No,  dear,  when  our  son  is  born  I  want 
him  to  be  born — here." 

Hendrie  smiled  tenderly  down  into  the  poor  tired  eyes. 
He  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"Son?"  he  said  gently. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STKONG 

"Yes,  dear.     I'm  sure  he  will  be  our — son." 

The  man  sighed.  He  was  thinking  of  Frank.  He  was 
thinking  of  another  woman  who  had  said  that  to  him.  He 
was  thinking  of  all  he  had  come  to  tell  this  woman,  and  he 
knew  he  must  remain  silent.  The  doctor  said  she  must  not 
be  excited.  The  way  he  had  calculated  to  beat  the  man  Tug 
was  barred  to  him,  and  he  knew  he  had  thought  more  of 
beating  him  than  of  the  honesty  of  his  purpose. 

Monica  looked  up  at  him  with  a  little  sigh. 

"Tell  me,  dear,  how  are  the  Trust  affairs  going?"  she 
asked,  a  little  eagerly.  "I  seem  to  have  lost  all  touch  with 
them." 

Hendrie  promptly  exerted  himself. 

"Why,  things  couldn't  be  better,"  he  said,  lying  deliber- 
ately. 

"I'm  so  glad.  Your  scheme  will  win  out  as  your  schemes 
always  do.  You  are — a  wonderful  man,  Alec."  She  sighed 
contentedly.  "Tell  me  of  them." 

There  was  no  escape,  and  Hendrie  promptly  resigned 
himself.  He  knew  he  must  draw  a  glowing  picture  for  this 
gentle,  sick  creature,  who  loved  him,  and  he  olid  his  best. 

He  told  her  of  the  general  position  of  things,  carefully 
suppressing  everything  of  an  unpleasant  nature,  or  glossing 
them  over.  He  just  hinted  at  the  labor  unrest,  feeling  it 
would  be  best  to  leave  it  alone.  But  Monica  eagerly  caught 
at  the  hints. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  starting  from  his  supporting  arm.  "I 
knew  there  was  labor  trouble." 

"You  knew?  Who  told  you?"  Hendrie's  surprise  was 
marked.  It  was  an  understood  thing  that  all  that  was  un- 
pleasant should  be  kept  from  Monica.  He  wondered  if 
Phyllis  had  been  foolish  enough  to  tell  her. 

Monica  smiled  up  at  him.    Her  eyes  were  feverish. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  Alec,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
reproach  in  her  tone.  "No  one  has  told  me;  no  one  has  dis- 
obeyed orders.  But  it  is  useless  to  try  to  keep  these  things 
from  me,  when — they  are  unpleasant.  Did  I  not  tell  you  all 
my  nights  were  crowded  with  dreams  that  are  unpleasant? 
I  have  seen  this  labor  trouble  in  my  dreams.  I  have  seen  it, 
not  as  you  talk  of  it,  as  something  to  be  set  aside  as  of  no 
importance.  I  have  seen  it  in  its  full  horror  of  merciless 


HENDRIE    SELLS  353 

antagonism  of  class  against  class.  I  have  seen  tht  poverty, 
the  misery  and  starvation  driving  the  wretched  workers  to 
fierce  and  criminal  outrages.  It  has  been  war,  bitter  war  for 
existence  on  the  part  of  these,  and  desperate  defence  on  the 
part  of  folks  like  ourselves.  I  have  seen  cities  in  flames,  with 
the  streets  running  blood.  I  have  seen  the  whole  country- 
side afire,  and  we,  you  and  I,  have  been  always  in  its  midst, 
with  my  poor  Frank  at  the  head  of  the  mob.  Oh,  it  has  been 
Ireadful,  awful." 

Monica  had  quite  suddenly  worked  herself  up  into  a  frenzy 
)f  fever,  and  the  man  at  her  side  looked  helplessly  on.  The 
iioment  she  finished  speaking  he  sought  with  all  his  might  to 
soothe  her  jangling  nerves. 

"These  are  fancies,  dear,"  he  said,  in  his  direct  fashion. 
'These  are  the  distortions  of  the  darkness  you  complain 
ibout.  Listen,  I'll  tell  you.  None  of  these  things  can  hurt 
is,  and  I  don't  think  your  Frank  will  ever  lead  a  mob.  His 
thoughts  and  impulses  are  far  too  exalted.  For  ourselves  I 
im  going  to  Calford  to  sell  to-day.  I  am  going  to  complete 
the  deal  before  any  word  of  labor  trouble  affecting  us  can 
reach  the  public.  I  sell  to  the  speculators.  Then — nothing 
natters." 

His  reassurance  had  its  effect,  and  the  sick  woman  sighed. 

"I'm  so  glad.  You  are  always  just  a  point  cleverer  than 
any  one  else.  Come  and  tell  me  about  it  when  you  get  back, 
won't  you?  This  sort  of  thing  helps  me."  Suddenly  Monica 
turned  her  head  and  claimed  his  whole  attention.  "Tell  me, 
Alec,  do  you  think  Frank  will  ever  come  to  me?  Oh,  if  he 
would  only  come  I — I  believe  these  dreadful  nightmares 
would  leave  me.  If  you  only  knew  how  I  long  to  see  him.  If 
you — 

At  that  moment  one  of  his  headstrong  fits  seized  the  man. 
It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  the  will  to  do  rose  up  in 
him,  casting  aside  all  reason,  all  caution  in  its  tremendous 
purpose. 

"He  shall  come,"  he  cried.     "I — I  promise  you !" 

The  sick  woman  clasped  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  hope 
and  thankfulness. 

"Oh,  Alec,"  she  cried,  "you  promise?  Then — he  will  come. 
I  can  be  happy  now.  Quite  happy — till  you  return." 

But  immediately  Hendrie  realized  how  he  had  committed 
24 


354  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

himself.  He  saw  ahead  the  added  danger  of  failure.  And 
in  his  moment  of  realization  he  rose  abruptly  from  his  seat 
on  the  bed.  But  he  would  not  yield  to  his  momentary  weak- 
ness. His  promise  once  given  must  be  fulfilled.  He  must 
set  about  it  at  once.  He  knew  that  his  desperate  feelings  at 
the  sight  of  the  sufferings  of  this  woman  he  loved,  had 
trapped  him. 

"I  must  go  now,  Mon,"  he  cried,  with  an  attempt  at  cheer- 
fulness. "I  must  fulfill  my  promise.  You  see  my  going  to 
Calford  is  lucky,  for  I  believe  our  Frank  is  there.  If  he  is  I 
shall  bring  him  back  with  me.  Good-bye,  my  dearest.  God 
bless  you.  Our  Frank  shall  help  you  to  get  well." 

"God  bless  you,  Alec.  You  will  come  back  to  me — soon?" 
she  cried  appealingly. 

The  man  stooped,  and  the  woman's  thin  arms  caught  and 
held  him  in  their  embrace.  Then,  reluctantly,  he  moved 
away  and  passed  from  the  room. 

Beyond  the  door  Phyllis  was  awaiting  him.  As  he  came 
out  she  raised  a  finger  to  her  lips  to  enjoin  silence,  and  led 
him  down  the  corridor. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  she  turned,  and  her  eyes  were 
alight  with  excitement. 

"I  had  to  see  you  first,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  she  said,  in  an  ex- 
cited undertone,  as  though  fearful  lest  Monica  might  hear, 
even  at  that  distance.  "It's — it's  about  Frank.  You  know 
she's  just  all  out  to  see  him.  She's  dying — to  see  him.  Well, 
I've  had  a  letter  from  him.  I'd  written  him,  telling  him  he 
must  come,  and  it's  his  answer.  He — he  says  he's  coming 
right  away,  and  I've  to  go  into  Evertoii  to  meet  him.  I 
— had  to  ask  you  first.  May  he  come — and  see  Monica? 
Will  it  hurt  her?  You  see,  I  just  guessed  I'd  write  without 
saying  a  thing  about  it,  and — and  now  he's  coming." 

A  silent  thankfulness  went  up  from  the  millionaire's  heart 
as  he  smiled  down  into  the  pretty,  eager  face  before  him. 

"Our  guardian  angel,"  he  cried  impulsively.  "Why,  my 
dear,  I've  only  just  given  my  solemn  promise  that  he  shall 
come,  and  I  was  wondering  how  to  fulfill  it." 

"Then  he  may  come?  The  shock?  The  excitement?  The 
doctor  says  she  must  be  kept  from  all  excitement,"  cried 
Phyllis  doubtfully. 

"Doctor  be  damned!"  cried  Hendrie,  in  his  headstrong 


FRANK  LEARNS  HIS  DUTY      355 

way.  "Happiness  never  killed  any  one.  And" — his  eyes 
grew  serious  and  his  manner  less  full  of  hope — "anyway," 
he  went  on,  in  a  passionate  tone,  "I'd  ten  thousand  times 
rather  see  poor  Mon  die  happy  than  endure  the  heartbreak- 
ing sufferings  she  is  doing  now.  Wire  him,  my  dear,  wire  him 
not  to  delay,  but  to  come  along  at  once." 

Then  his  manner  grew  thoughtful,  and  a  touch  of  bitter- 
ness crept  into  it. 

"I'm — I'm  going  into  Calford  right  now,"  he  said,  "and — 
my  absence  will  make  it  easier  for  him.  Good  girl." 

He  patted  her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  and  passed  down  the 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

• 

FRANK    LEARNS    HIS    DUTY 

TIME  had  been  when  Frank  believed  that  no  chance  of 
life  could  ever  bring  him  to  the  neighborhood  of  Deep  Wil- 
lows again.  Now,  within  a  brief  two  years,  he  was  eagerly 
watching  for  the  familiar  scenes  as  his  hired  conveyance 
drew  near  the  village  of  Everton. 

However  eagerly  his  eyes  gazed  out  ahead,  his  spirit  was 
sorely  enough  depressed.  He  felt  that  he  hated  the  golden 
wheat  fields  as  they  came  within  his  view,  spreading  their  rich 
carpet  over  the  earth  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  He  was 
struck,  too,  at  the  distance  they  had  seemed  to  lie  back  in 
his  memory.  They  seemed  to  belong  to  some  other,  long  past 
existence  that  had  no  relation  to  his  present.  A  great  gulf 
seemed  to  have  been  crossed,  a  gulf,  dreadful  in  its  pro- 
fundity, and  somehow  these  lands  belonged  to  it. 

The  delicious  air  of  the  plains  seemed  to  oppress  him.  He 
felt  that  the  invigorating  breezes  choked  him.  The  golden 
sunlight,  too,  shining  down  upon  the  burnished  grain,  failed 
to  raise  a  single  pulse  beat.  Two  years  ago  it  would  all  have 
been  so  different. 

But  he  knew  that  the  change  was  in  himself.  Young  as  he 
was  he  knew  that  something  of  his  youth  had  been  snatched 
from  him  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  life.  He  knew  that  here 
nothing  was  changed.  The  same  breezes  blew  over  the  same 


356  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

fertile  plains.  The  same  sun  shone  down  with  its  serene 
splendor.  The  same  people  dwelt  on  this  glorious  land.  It 
was  only  he  that  was  different. 

The  change  he  realized  made  him  turn  his  eyes  upon  his 
new  aspect  of  life  with  still  further  questioning,  and  he  knew 
that  it  had  brought  him  not  one  moment  of  happiness  that 
could  compare  with  those  by-gone  days,  somewhere  behind 
him,  beyond  the  painful  gulf  he  still  feared  to  gaze  upon. 

But  an  added  trouble  was  with  him  now.  Fate  had  sternly 
decreed  that  his  lot  was  still  bound  up  with  Deep  Willows. 
There  was  no  escape.  Austin  Leyburn  had  morally  forced 
this  place,  he  wished  to  shun,  upon  him,  and,  further,  the 
subtle  appeal  of  his  affections  had  been  played  upon.  There 
was  mockery  in  the  conflicting  object,  of  his  return  to  the 
place.  His  whole  love  was  bound  up  in  two  women.  He  was 
paradoxically  journeying  to  bring  comfort  to  the  two  lives 
he  had  brought  pain  into,  while,  at  the  same  time5  he  knew, 
in  spite  of  Leyburn's  assurances  to  the  contrary,  his  duty 
pointed  directly  the  opposite. 

His  boyish  mind  was  disturbed,  his  kindly  heart  was 
troubled.  While  he  believed  that  his  new  thought  was  right, 
all  his  inclinations  tore  him  in  other  directions,  now  that  his 
affections  had  been  brought  into  conflict. 

At  last  he  drove  down  the  wood-lined  main  street  of  the 
village.  He  passed  several  empty,  outlying  houses  which  he 
remembered  he  had  always  known  as  empty.  The  rotting 
sidewalk  of  wood,  too,  was  just  the  same  as  he  remembered  it. 
He  passed  the  little  wooden  church,  which  possessed  a  bell 
so  reminiscent  of  the  prairie  homestead.  There,  too,  was 
the  parson's  house  beside  it.  Then,  next,  a  cross  street,  and 
beyond  that  the  stores,  six  in  number,  that  made  up  the  com- 
mercial interests  of  the  place.  On  the  next  corner  stood  the 
Russell  Hotel.  Yes,  he  could  see  it.  There  was  a  buggy 
outside  it.  There  was  generally  a  buggy  outside  it,  he  re- 
membered. Whose  was  it?  There  was  some  one  in  it.  Ah, 
yes,  a  woman.  No,  why  it  was — yes,  it  was  Phyllis. 

His  heart  beat  fast  as  his  buckboard  rattled  up.  His  eyes 
had  grown  bright  with  something  of  their  old  boyish  smile  of 
delight  as  he  noted  the  bent  head  of  the  girl  poring  over  a 
book  she  was  reading.  For  the  moment,  all  his  doubts  and 
regrets  were  forgotten.  Phyllis  was  waiting  for  him.  Wait- 


FRANK    LEARNS    HIS    DUTY 

ing,  though  lie  did  not  realize  it,  as  she  would  always  wait  for 
him. 

He  called  out  a  greeting  as  he  drew  nearer,  and  the  girl 
looked  up  with  a  glad  smile.  Then,  though  many  yards 
still  separated  them,  he  became  aware  of  a  marked  change 
in  her  young  face.  She  was  thinner,  the  old  freshness  of  her 
rounded  cheeks  had  somehow  sobered  down  to  a  delicate 
smoothness,  almost  thinness.  The  brilliant  look  of  perfect, 
open-air  health  had  given  place  to  a  delicate  pallor  that  in 
no  way  robbed  her  of  beauty,  but  quite  banished  the  sun- 
tanned freshness  gleaned  from  her  work  in  the  fields.  Her 
eyes,  too,  they  seemed  bigger  and  wider  than  ever.  Then 
there  was  her  change  of  attire.  The  old  Phyllis  was  gone. 
Here  was  a  city  girl  in  her  place,  dressed  with  simple  taste, 
but  in  clothes  that  must  have  cost  far  more  money  than  she 
could  afford. 

But  his  astonishment  did  not  lessen  his  delight  at  the 
sight  of  her.  Never  had  she  looked  more  beautiful  to  him, 
never  had  she  possessed  more  attraction.  He  knew  that 
most  of  her  time  was  spent  at  Monica's  side,  a  place  he  often 
felt  that  should  have  been  his.  She  had  told  him  of  the 
changes  in  her  life,  and  that  since  Monica's  illness  her  own 
home  and  mother  saw  her  at  week-ends  only,  while  Hendrie's 
money  provided  that  her  little  farm  lacked  not  in  its  pros- 
perity. 

"Why,  Phyl,"  he  cried,  as  he  came  up.  "You  waiting  for 
me  here,  like  this  ?  I  might  have  been  hours  late." 

The  girl  smiled  happily  as  she  closed  her  book. 

"Certainly  you  might.  But" — with  a  simple  sincerity — 
"it  would  have  made  no  difference.  I  have  waited  longer 
than  this  for  you — before.  And  often  enough  sitting  on  a 
hard,  well-polished  old  log." 

For  once  Frank  detected  that  which  underlaid  her  words. 
He  remembered  that  time  in  Toronto  when  she  had  ventured 
alone  from  her  home  to  find  him.  He  remembered  that  she 
had  said  she  would  always  be  waiting  for  him,  and  his  boyish 
heart  went  out  more  tenderly  to  her  than  ever. 

But  what  he  said  conveyeo!  nothing  of  this. 

"But  this  sun,"  he  cried.     "It — it  is  scorching." 

The  girl  only  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"You  can  pay  off  your  teamster,  and  leave  your  baggage 


358  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

here.  Guess  you'd  best  get  up  beside  me,  and  I'll  drive 
you  in." 

In  a  moment  the  man's  mind  came  back  to  all  that  this 
visit  entailed.  The  sight  of  this  girl  had  put  it  out  of  his 
head. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'll  get  up  beside  you,  but '  Then 

he  turned  to  his  teamster.  "Put  the  horses  in  the  barn,"  he 
said,  "and  book  me  a  room.  You'll  see  to  yourself,  and  wait 
for  me  here." 

Then  he  alighted  and  climbed  into  Phyllis's  buggy,  and 
the  next  moment  they  were  rolling  smoothly  along  in  the  di- 
rection of  Deep  Willows. 

Phyllis  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  dropped  her  hands  in 
her  lap.  The  horse  was  pleasantly  ambling  along  a  trail  it 
was  used  to. 

She  looked  round  with  a  half  humorous  smile. 

"Of  course.  Say,  I  forgot  you  belonged  to  the — enemy, 
Frank,"  she  said.  "I  just  forgot  everything,  but  that  you 
were  coming  to  see  Monica.  You  said  in  your  letter  you'd 
got  to  get  right  here  in  your — work.  It  seems  queer.  I — 
say,  Frank,  I  just  can't  fix  you  as  an — enemy,"  she  cried,  in 
a  tone  of  raillery. 

The  man's  eyes  were  on  the  two*,  small?  gloved  hands  in 
her  lap. 

"I'm — not  an  enemy,  Phyl,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Aren't  you?"  She  laughed.  "I  suppose  it's  just  friend- 
ship to  us  all  to  come  along,  just  around  harvest  5  and  tell 
the  boys  to  quit  work,  so  as  to  make  us  poor  farmers  lose  our 
crops,  and  keep  the  boys  who  work  the  harvest  from  making 
a  great  stake  for  the  winter.  You  see,  we've  had  men  around 
these  weeks  and  weeks,  telling  the  boys  that  way.  They're 
men  belonging  to  Leyburn,  same  as  you  do." 

Frank  looked  up  with  hot  eyes. 

"I  don't  belong  to  Leyburn,"  he  cried.  "I  belong  to  no 
man  but  myself,  and  my — my  convictions." 

His  sudden  heat  sobered  the  girl  at  his  side.  She  seemed 
to  be  reduced  to  penitence. 

"I'm  real  sorry  I  said  that,  Frank,  I  am  sure.  You  see, 
I  was  just  teasing.  Guess  I  didn't  think — except  about  poor 
Monica.  You  see,  dear,  she's  so — so  ill,  and  I  don't  think 
she'll  ever  get  better.  That's  partly  why  I  sent  for  you. 


FRANK  LEARNS  HIS  DUTY      359 

When  this — this  trouble  comes  I'm  half  afraid  it'll  kill  her." 

The  man's  resentment  had  utterly  died  out.  In  its  place 
was  a  terrible,  straining1  anxiety  and  grief. 

"Kill  her?  Oh,  Phyl,  you  can't — you  don't  mean  that. 
Surely  she  is  not  so  ill  as  all  that.  Surely  you're  just 
troubled,  and  fancy  that.  How — how  can  any  labor  trouble 
hurt  her.  It  can't.  There  will  be  no  trouble  if  Hendrie  is — 
reasonable.  That  is  what  Leyburn  said.  He  promised  me 
that." 

"Promised  you?"  said  the  girl  quickly.  Her  mind  was 
wide  open  and  watchful.  This  boy  was  all  the  world  to  her. 

"Yes,  yes.  He  promised  me  before  I  accepted  this  work. 
Oh,  you  don't  understand.  You  can't.  We  want  the  em- 
ployers to  realize  their  responsibilities.  We  want  them  to 
make  the  lives  of  those  who  toil  for  them  happier  and  better. 
We  want  them  to  give  them  a  fair  wage,  and  let  them  enjoy 
life  instead  of  keeping  them  crushed  beneath  the  grindstone 
of  their  labor.  Hendrie,  I  believe,  will  do  this.  Then — 
there  can  be  no  trouble  that  can  hurt  Monica." 

Phyllis  gazed  out  ahead  and  nodded. 

"You,  too,  feared  your  work  might  hurt  Monica,"  she 
said,  "or  you  would  not  have  made  him  promise — that." 

Frank  started.  He  knew  that  fear  had  been  in  his  mind. 
Was  still  in  it.  But  Phyllis  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  She 
turned  at  once  to  him,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  were  very 
tender  as  she  beheld  the  pucker  of  anxious  thought  between 
his  brows. 

"Men  are  so  queer,"  she  said,  with  a  quaint  little  twisted 
smile.  "I'd  say  they  aren't  a  bit  like  women  in — some  things. 
Say,  dear,  I  guess  it  wouldn't  hurt  you  just  a  little  bit  if  I'd 
set  right  out  to  carry  on  a  war  against  everything  that  be- 
longed to  your  life.  It  wouldn't  hurt  you  to  think  your  son 
had  just  got  right  to  work  to  make  you  do  things  that  you 
couldn't  see  the  justice  of.  It  wouldn't  hurt  you,  no  matter 
how  he  told  you  he  was  your  friend,  if  he  acted  the  way  of 
an  enemy.  To  a  woman  that  just  seems  dreadful.  It's  like 
your  own  child,  the  child  you've  done  all  you  could  to  help — • 
when  he's  helpless,  the  child  you've  never  been  too  ill,  or  too 
tired  to  nurse  and  fix  right,  the  child  you'd  be  ready  any  time 
to  give  your  life  for,  just  turning  right  around  and  hitting 
you  in  the  face  when — when  you're  helpless.  It  doesn't  mat- 


360  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

ter  if  trouble  comes  or  not,  you're  leading  the  folks  against 
your  Monica.  While  she's  abed  sick  to  death,  and  can't  help 
herself,  you're — you're  just  going  to  hit  her  in  the  face. 
Maybe  it's  not  just  only  in  the  face.  Maybe  it's  her  poor, 
tired  heart,  that's  been  crying  these  nights  and  nights  for 
sight  of  you." 

"Phyl!  Phyl!  For  God's  sake  don't  talk  that  way," 
Frank  burst  out,  a  great,  passionate  grief  in  his  honest  eyes. 
"You  make  me  out  the  crudest  monster  living.  Can't  I  con- 
vince you  of  the  rightness  of  all  I  want  to  do  ?  Monica  ?  I'd 
give  my  life  a  hundred  times  to  help  her.  I  love  her  as  never 
mother  was  loved.  I  would  not  hurt  her,  not  a  hair  of  her 
head." 

"I  know,  dear,"  the  girl  replied  soothingly.  "I  know  all 
that,  and — much  more.  I  know  that  you  are  not  going  to 
hurt  her.  God  is  watching  over  her,  and  He  would  never 
permit  you  such  a — crime.  Then,  dear" — she  smiled  her 
gentle  smile  up  into  his  face,  and  her  pretty  teeth  clipped 
together  as  she  spurred  herself  to  her  final  thrust — "there's 
another  watching  over  her,  too.  But  he's  only  an  earthly 
creature.  Still,  he's  a  big,  strong  man,  who's  just  full  of  all 
the  faults  which  belong  to  all  strong  human  nature.  Yes, 
oh,  yes.  He's  anything  but  a  saint.  But  he  sets  your  Mon 
before  all  things  in  his  life,  before  everything,  and  he's — her 
husband.  He  is  there  to  protect  her,  as,  some  day,  you  may 
want  to  protect — me." 

The  buggy  rounded  the  last  bend  in  the  trail,  and  the  great 
house  came  into  view  as  Phyllis  finished  speaking.  Frank 
made  no  answer.  He  had  nothing  to  say.  The  girl  at  his 
side  had  stirred  his  tender  heart  as  it  had  never  been  stirred 
before,  and  he  sat  gazing  hopelessly  out  ahead  at  the  palatial 
home,  with  all  its  luxury  of  surroundings,  where  the  woman 
he  regarded  as  a  mother  was  denied  the  health  and  happiness 
which  the  world  believed  wealth  could  never  fail  to  bestow. 

He  could  not  help  thinking  of  it,  though  well-nigh  over- 
whelmed with  grief.  All  the  wealth  which  others  were  crying 
out  to  share  in,  was  hers,  and  yet  he  felt  that  there  was 
greater  health  and  happiness  to  be  found  in  the  houses  of 
poverty  it  was  his  desire  to  champion. 

No,  he  had  no  answer  for  this  wise  girl  he  loved.  How 
could  he  answer  her?  His  eyes  were  opening  to  possibilities 


FRANK  LEARNS  HIS  DUTY      361 

which  had  seemed  so  utterly  impossible  before.  In  his  mind 
he  had  accused  Hendrie,  and  all  others  of  his  class,  of  being 
monsters  of  inhumanity,  devoid  of  heart,  a  race  apart  from 
those  who  toiled  for  the  barest  existence,  and  Phyllis  was 
telling  him  how  perfectly  human  were  these  hated  creatures. 

This  man  Hendrie  was  just  as  the  rest  of  men.  Whatever 
his  passions,  his  unscrupulous  methods  of  dealing  with  those 
who  crossed  his  path,  he  shared  all  these  things  in  common 
with  all  humanity.  His  love  for  Monica  was  just  man's  love 
for  woman,  only,  perhaps,  more  strong,  more  vital,  by  reason 
of  the  wonderful  strength  of  manhood  which  was  his. 
Greater  than  all  in  his  life  stood  out  this  love  of  his  for  his 
wife. 

Notwithstanding  all  that  had  passed,  notwithstanding  the 
class  Hendrie  represented,  notwithstanding  that,  even  now, 
he,  Frank,  was  embarked  upon  a  mission  in  opposition  to  this 
very  man,  a  strange  warmth  of  feeling  rose  up  in  his  heart 
for  him  who  could  so  watch  and  guard  over  Monica,  and 
strive  with  body  and  mind  to  keep  her  from  all  hurt. 

Phyllis  sat  watching  him  covertly.  Perhaps  she  under- 
stood something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  She  un- 
derstood his  doubt.  That  there  was  no  mistaking.  She  knew 
the  value  of  that  doubt,  and  wondered  if  it  was  the  seed  that 
must  grow  and  develop,  and  finally  bring  back  to  herself  and 
Monica  the  boy  they  both  loved  so  well.  She  believed  it  was, 
and  the  comfort  of  the  thought  held  her  silent,  too. 

Presently  she  drew  the  horse  up  at  the  entrance  porch. 
She  flung  the  reins  to  the  waiting  servant,  and  sprang  un- 
assisted from  the  vehicle.  Frank  moved  more  slowly,  and 
lumbered  his  great  body  from  between  the  spidery  wheels. 

In  silence  they  passed  into  the  house.  In  silence  Phyllis 
led  the  >way  upstairs.  She  wanted  no  word  to  pass  between 
them  now,  until  Frank  had  seen  Monica, 

At  the  door  of  the  sick  room  she  paused  and  knocked.  It 
was  opened  by  the  new  nurse,  arrived  only  that  morning  from 
Calford.  Then  Phyllis,  signing  to  Frank  to  remain  outside, 
passed  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

The  man  waited.  The  minutes  seemed  like  hours.  He  had 
forgotten  everything  now  except  that  he  was  to  see  Monica 
again.  Something  of  Phyllis's  manner  in  entering  that  room 
had  inspired  him  with  a  dread  which  no  words  could  have 


362  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

given  him.  He  felt  that  perhaps  he  was  about  to  see  her  for 
the  last  time. 

At  last  he  heard  a  rustle  of  skirts  beyond  the  door.  The 
next  moment  the  nurse  stood  in  the  doorway,  signing  to  him 
for  silence.  Then  she  beckoned  him  in. 

The  door  closed  softly  behind  him,  and  he  started  at  the 
great  canopied  bed. 

Monica  was  half  propped  up.  Beside  her  was  Phyllis, 
tenderly  chafing  her  thin,  almost  transparent  hands.  He 
took  a  step  toward  the  bed,  but  halted  abruptly  as  he  heard 
Monica's  familiar  voice,  now  high  pitched  and  strident. 

"No,  no,  I  don't  believe  it.  I  can't  have  won  it.  Why  you 
don't  know  what  it  means  to  me.  Here,  here's  a  dollar  for 
you.  I'm  going  to  see  the  editor  at  once.  Yes,  he's  my  son 
and  what  of  it?  You  dare."  Then  followed  a  few  mumbled 
unintelligible  words.  But  in  a  moment  her  voice  rose  to  a 
passionate  appeal.  "Oh,  Frank,  don't  leave  me !  Don't  you 
understand?  I  love  him  so.  No,  don't  go — please  don't 
leave  me.  He's  gone!  He's  gone!  They've  taken  him  to 
prison.  Oh,  God,  and  I  shall  never  see  him  again.  Five 
years.  God  have  mercy,  have  mercy !" 

The  voice  rambled  on,  now  rising  to  a  dreadful  pitch,  now 
dying  down  to  a  whisper.  Now  the  words  and  sentences  were 
plain,  distinct,  now  there  were  only  despairing  mutterings, 
which  had  neither  meaning  nor  continuity.  Frank  stood 
looking  on  in  horrified  amazement.  He  had  not  dreamed  of 
such  a  thing.  No  one  had  even  hinted  at  such  a  condition. 
But  he  could  not  stand  there  listening.  He  felt  as  though  his 
heart  must  break. 

Suddenly  he  started  forward,  and  Phyllis,  watching  beck- 
oned to  him.  He  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  at  the  bedside, 
and  tried  to  take  one  of  the  sick  woman's  hands  in  his.  But 
instantly  Monica  snatched  it  away. 

"Don't  dare  to  touch  me,"  she  cried,  struggling  into  a 
sitting  posture.  "You — you  have  done  this.  You  sent  him 
to  prison — and  now  I  shall  never  see  him  again." 

The  sick  woman's  voice  had  risen  almost  to  a  scream,  and 
the  nurse  sprang  to  her  side.  Phyllis  caught  Frank's  hands 
and  led  him  away. 

"Come,"  she  said,  and  together  they  passed  hastily  out 
of  the  room. 


FRANK  LEARNS  HIS  DUTY      363 

They  were  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Phyllis,  with 
her  hands  clasping  the  balustrade  of  the  gallery,  overlooking 
the  entrance  hall,  was  gazing  out  of  the  window,  opposite  her, 
at  the  wonderful  golden  skyline  beyond  the  belt  of  trees  that 
marked  the  course  of  the  river.  Frank  was  beside  her,  half 
turned  toward  her.  He  was  standing  on  the  third  step  of  the 
staircase. 

"This  delirium  only  started  after  I  left  this  morning,"  the 
girl  was  saying.  "She  was  quite — quite  all  right  then.  Oh, 
Frank,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Mr.  Hendrie  is  away,  and 
—I'm  afraid." 

The  man's  emotion  was  no  less.  His  face  was  ghastly  pale, 
and  a  light  of  utter  depression  and  hopelessness  had  dulled 
his  eyes.  At  the  girl's  final  admission  he  suddenly  looked  up, 
and  a,  passionate  light  replaced  the  gloom  of  a  moment 
before. 

"Phyl,  Phyl,  I  can't  go  on !"  he  cried.  "I  can't  leave  her. 
I  must  stay  here.  I  love  her.  I  owe  her  everything — every- 
thing I  am.  She — she  is  my  mother.  Oh,  God,  and  to  think 
I  am  even  now  here  in  the  district  at  war  with  all  that  be- 
longs to  her.  To  think  that  I  should  have  one  single  thought 
in  antagonism  to  her.  No,  no.  I  can't  go  on  with  't.  I  must 
stay  and  help  her.  I  must  stay  till — till  the  crisis  is  past. 
Phyl — tell  me.  Tell  me  what  I  can  do.  I  love  her,  dear,  and 
I  want  to — help  her." 

The  man's  sudden  passion  stirred  the  girl's  responsive 
heart.  But  it  also  helped  to  banish  her  own  moment  of 
weakness.  She  suddenly  placed  one  hand  upon  his  as  it 
rested  on  the  balustrade  beside  her.  It  was  a  caress  that 
thrilled  the  man,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  trouble. 

"You  can't  stay  here,  Frank,  dear,"  she  said.  "It  would 
be  useless ;  it  would  be  wrong." 

"Wrong?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply. 

"But  surely  I  have  a  right  to  remain,  and — and  help?" 

Phyllis  smiled  tenderly. 

"How?"  she  inquired.  "Help?  You  would  only  stay 
around  worrying  and  miserable.  You  could  do  no  good, 
dear.  Besides " 

"Besides?" 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Your  duty  lies — elsewhere." 

"My  duty  lies  here.    My  first  duty  is  to  my — mother !" 

The  man's  denial  came  with  a  deep  thrill  of  passion. 

"Does  it,  dear?"  Phyllis  said  gently.  "I  think  not— yet." 
Then  she  suddenly  abandoned  herself  to  all  that  was  in  her 
heart  for  this  man's  good,  and  her  voice  was  deep  with  her 
own  emotion.  "I  tell  you  you  can't  stay.  Yrou  surely  can't. 
See,  there's  nothing  for  you  to  do  around.  I  shall  send  word 
to  Mr.  Hendrie,  at  once.  The  doctor  is  here,  and  the  nurses. 
You  must  go.  Go  right  about  your  business.  Frank,  Frank, 
just  fix  it  in  your  mind  right  away,  there's  no  two  roads  of 
duty.  Your  bond  is  given.  Your  future  is  bound  right  up 
in  helping  folks  who  need  your  help.  You  cannot  draw  back 
just — just  because  your — mother — is  sick.  To  do  that  is 
just  yourself  claiming  you.  Your  pledge  is  to  the  workers 
now,  and  you  must  fulfill  it.  I  would  have  you  do  this,  sure. 
Say,  when  you're  through,  when  you've  fulfilled  your  duty, 
then  it's  time  to  come  around  and  think  of  those  you  just 
love — for  yourself.  Frank,  I'd  just  love  to  have  you  stay 
around,  but  I'd  rather  you  do  the  duty  you  set  yourself — • 
now." 

The  man  stared  incredulously  up  into  her  face.  He  was 
trying  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  change  of  atti- 
tude toward  the  work  he  was  engaged  upon.  Even  at  such  a 
moment  he  could  not  help  remembering  how  passionately  she 
had  protested  against  it  in  Toronto. 

"You — you,  Phyl,  tell  me  to — go  on?  You  refuse  me 
when  I  implore  you  to  let  me  remain  with  Mon  ?" 

The  girl  looked  down  at  him  with  her  wise  little  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh.  "I  want  you  to  go  now,  other- 
wise— you  will  never  be  able  to  come  back  to  us.  Come, 
dear,"  she  went  on,  smiling  at  his  puzzled  expression,  and 
taking  him  by  the  hand,  "I  must  go  and  send  my  message  to 
Mr.  Hendrie." 

CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    STRIKE 

ANGUS  looked  up  into  the  faces  of  the  three  men  standing 
beyond  his  roll-top  desk,  which  was  littered  with  dust  and 
debris  such  as  no  man  accustomed  to  office  work  could 


THE    STRIKE  365 

have  tolerated.     But  Angus  was  no  office  man.     He  hated 
the  place,  and  only  used  it  when  his  work  obliged  him  to. 

Just  now  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  was  glad  of  its  support 
in  dealing  with  affairs  such  as  were  confronting  him  at  the 
moment.  It  helped  him  to  an  air  which  he  felt  to  be  neces- 
sary. Full  well  he  knew  the  awe  of  a  roll-top  desk  for  these 
sons  of  the  soil. 

Now  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  cold  eyes  glanced 
deliberately  at  each  man's  face  in  turn.  They  were  russet- 
hued  faces,  bearded  and  unkempt.  They  were  the  faces  of 
men  strong  in  muscle  if  simple  of  mind.  They  were  three 
of  his  farm  hands,  and  each  one  had  served  under  his  guid- 
ance for  many  years.  They  were  competent,  skilled  ma- 
chinists, whose  thought  was  only  for  their  work  and  their 
weekly  wage. 

Angus  knew  them  well,  for  willing,  hard-working  men, 
with  a  weakness  only  for  taking  things  easy  on  Monday 
mornings,  and  an  invincible  desire  to  reach  the  Russell  Hotel 
bar  punctually  at  one  o'clock  on  Saturday  afternoons. 

Secretly  he  regretted  the  interview;  outwardly  he  was 
roughly  indifferent. 

The  men  stood  silent  and  uncomfortable  under  his  scrutiny, 
but  a  surly  truculence  was  in  their  eyes  as  they  endeavored 
to  return  his  stare. 

"So  this  is  your — ultimatum,"  the  manager  said  at  last? 
with  something  of  his  best  snarling  grouch  in  his  harsh  voice. 
"Mr.  Hendrie's  got  to  cut  out  one  hundred  and  eighty-three 
niggers  from  this  place,  all  slap-up  workers,  who  don't 
break  up  every  blamed  machine  they  put  their  hands  on, 
because  you  white  boys  are  kicking  at  their  color."  One  of 
the  men  made  a  movement  as  though  about  to  interrupt,  but 
Angus  silenced  him  with  a  gesture.  "Hold  on,"  he  cried. 
"Guess  I  listened  to  you  all  you  needed.  I  hadn't  a  word 
while  you  boys  were  gassing.  Now  I  need  to  do  some  talk. 
Seem'  I'm  busy  I'm  not  going  to  waste  my  time  on  you.  So 
just  get  this,  and  get  it  good  and  quick.  I'm  running  this 
layout.  I'm  paying  you  your  wages.  I'm  boss.  I'll  run 
the  place  as  I  see  fit.  If  you  don't  like  it  you  can  go — to 
hell !" 

"They're  undercuttin'  us  in  price,"  cried  one  of  the  men, 
with  an  oath. 


366  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"They're  being  paid  the  same  wages  as  you  are — accord- 
ing to  their  class  of  work,"  retorted  Angus  sharply. 

"Then  they've  no  right  to  it,  they're  bl niggers," 

cried  the  same  man. 

Angus's  eyes  snapped. 

"I  don't  care  a  cuss  if  they're  Red  Indians  or  Chinamen," 
he  snarled. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Moraine,"  cried  another,  "we  come  here 
like  men  to  tell  you  what's  doing,  so  it's  up  to  you.  We 
refuse  to  work  alongside  a  lousy  crowd  o'  niggers.  Try  and 
force  it  on  us,  and  there's  not  a  blamed  soul  among  us 
whites'll  handle  a  binder  this  harvest.  Your  crops  can  rot 
till  they  stink.  Every  white  man  on  this  layout  quits  at 
sun-down  to-day." 

Angus  rose  'from  his  chair,  and  his  lean  figure  was  bent 
forward  as  he  supported  himself  with  one  hand  on  the  desk. 

"You  can  take  your  damned  'times'  now,"  he  cried  fiercely. 
Then  he  shot  one  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  "There's 
the  door,"  he  shouted.  "Get  to  hell — through  it," 

The  three  muttering  figures  retreated  hastily.  They  knew 
this  man's  methods  too  well  to  hesitate.  They  had  been 
chosen  by  their  comrades  to  represent  them,  and  they  had 
carried  out  their  mission  in  good  faith.  But  from  the  outset 
they  had  little  enough  hope  of  success.  Men  on  that  farm 
had  attempted  to  bluff  Angus  before.  But  the  hard-faced 
Scot  was  a  match  for  any  man  he  employed.  Physically 
he  knew  no  fear,  and  his  contempt  for  the  "hired  man"  was 
profound. 

They  returned  to  their  waiting  comrades  filled  with  re- 
sentment against  both  Hendrie  and  his  representative.  They 
had  done  what  they  considered  their  duty,  a  duty  pointed 
out  to  them  by  the  talkers  of  their  union,  now  they  were 
ready  to  listen  to  any  counsels,  and  act  upon  them,  provided 
they  were  not  of  a  pacific  nature. 

Angus  dropped  back  into  his*  chair,  with  the  sigh  of  a  man 
at  high  tension. 

A  moment  later  he  picked  up  a  tinted  paper,  and  read 
the  typewritten  words  upon  it.  It  was  a  message  he  had 
received  that  morning  from  the  millionaire.  It  was  satis- 
factorily brief. 

"Fixed  up  everything.     Hendrie." 


THE    STRIKE  367 

The  sight  of  those  three  words  gladdened  the  Scot  to  an 
extent  that  brought  a  wintry  smile  to  his  lean  face.  Yes, 
he  was  satisfied.  He  knew  that  the  deal  in  wheat  had  been 
made,  and  that  the  trust  affairs  were  safeguarded.  It  was 
this  knowledge  that  had  inspired  the  ruthless,  autocratic 
fashion  in  which  he  had  sent  the  workers'  delegates  about 
their  business. 

Yes,  now  he  was  rather  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  fight. 
He  would  rather  fight  than  eat.  That  was  a  phrase  fre- 
quently used  to  express  the  opinion  the  workers  held  of  their 
chief.  Nor  was  it  particularly  exaggerated.  This  hard- 
driving  descendant  of  Scotch  ancestors  possessed  a  wonder- 
ful predilection  for  the  lesser  scientific  art  of  physical  self- 
defense,  and  it  was  the  secret  of  much  of  his  success  in  the 
organizing  of  his  employer's  interests  at  Deep  Willows. 

But  these  developments  at  home  left  many  possibilities 
of  an  ugly  nature,  a  nature  that  could  not  easily  be  antici- 
pated. With  strikes  here,  there,  and  everywhere  about  the 
country,  strikes  of  sympathy,  as  well  as  strikes  for  definite 
grievance,  not  even  Hendrie,  himself,  could  foresee  all  the 
possibilities  of  mischief.  Therefore,  in  the  millionaire's  ab- 
sence, it  became  his  obvious  duty  to  distribute  a  universal 
warning  to  all  the  trust  farmers. 

This  was  no  small  task,  but  it  was  one  that  afforded  him 
a  sort  of  malicious  satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  beating 
these  people  in  the  game  they  contemplated. 

Angus  quite  enjoyed  the  work.  He  was  really  in  his 
element.  The  prospect  of  a  fight  warmed  his  heart.  Almost 
in  the  same  breath  he  blessed  and  cursed  what  he  charac- 
terized as  Hendrie's  bull-headed  obstinacy.  At  one  moment 
he  was  fiendishly  chuckling  at  the  headlong  retreat  of  the 
invaders  of  his  office,  and  the  next  he  was  swearing  under 
his  breath  at  the  man  who  invented  pens,  and  such  a  depress- 
ing hued  liquid  as  ink.  He  was  wound  up  to  his  best  fighting 
mood,  and  his  disappointment  would  be  keen  if  the  im- 
mediate future  afforded  no  further  outlet  for  his  violent 
spirit. 

At  last  his  task  was  completed,  and  he  sighed  his  relief. 
It  was  well  past  his  dinner  hour  when  the  last  message  was 
written  and  dispatched  to  the  telegraph  office  at  Everton. 
But  food  was  just  now  of  no  sort  of  consequence.  He  sat 


368  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

back  in  his  chair,  lit  his  pipe,  and  prepared  to  compose  a 
message  to  his  employer. 

After  considerable  thought,  and  several  written  attempts, 
he  completed  the  message.  But  it  was  not  altogether  satis- 
factory. For  some  moments  he  sat  considering  it,  and,  in 
the  midst  of  his  cogitations,  his  eye  lit  upon  his  unfolded 
copy  of  the  Winnipeg  Daily  Times. 

It  was  lying  on  the  top  of  his  desk.  He  always  received 
the  paper  a  day  late,  but  it  was  his  custom  to  read  it  every 
morning,  immediately  after  his  breakfast.  This  morning 
it  had  lain  in  its  place  neglected  by  reason  of  the  coming 
of  the  delegation  from  the  farm  workers.  Now  he  picked 
it  up  without  another  thought.  His  interest  in  the  world's 
finance  was  far  too  deep  to  permit  of  any  further  neglect. 

He  turned  the  financial  page  and  scanned  it  eagerly. 
Then,  his  appetite  in  this  direction  appeased,  he  idly  turned 
over  to  the  general  news. 

In  a  moment  he  was  sitting  up  alert.  In  a  moment  all 
thoughts  of  finance,  and  everything  else,  were  banished  from 
his  mind,  and  his  whole  interest  became  absorbed  in  what 
he  read.  The  top  headline  was  in  vast  type,  and  half  a 
column  was  devoted  to  lesser  "scare"  headlines. 

GENERAL  RAILROAD  STRIKE 
THROUGHOUT  THE  COUNTRY 

With  hungry  eyes  he  read  down  the  list  of  inconveniences 
and  terrors  by  which,  the  paper  informed  the  public,  they 
were  beset.  Then  below  this  he  read  on  into  the  lesser 
type,  and  found  the  filling  out  of  the  "scare"  headings  in 
picturesque,  not  to  say  lurid,  journalese.  This  was  all  for 
the  unsophisticated,  the  simple,  and  warned  them  that  the 
bubble  of  civilization  had  burst  as  effectually  as  if  it  had 
been  made  of  soap. 

Angus  read  it  all,  and  it  impressed  him.  Not,  perhaps, 
as  the  editor  intended,  but  his  keen  mind  saw  through  the 
embellishments  and  detected  the  painful  truth  of  the  facts 
underneath.  The  possibilities  were  enormous.  He  pictured 
the  state  of  chaos  he  and  Hendrie  had  so  often  discussed, 
which  might  occur  in  a  vast  country,  such  as  Canada,  with 
a  simple  trunk  route  of  communication  running  through  it. 


THE    STRIKE  369 

Further,  his  mind  flew  to  the  coming  of  the  harvest.  It 
was  less  than  two  weeks  off.  In  a  moment  the  possibilities 
piled  up  in  his  mind  till  he  began  to  think  that  perhaps 
the  picturesque  journalist  was  right,  a  great  and  terrible 
national  disaster  was  upon  the  country. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  he  suddenly  remembered  his  message 
to  Hendrie.  It  was  a  request  for  him  to  return  without 
delay.  The  memory  of  it  made  him  promptly  turn  to  the 
paragraph  relating  to  passenger  transport.  It  was  brief, 
cmt  very  definite. 

"The  strikers  hold  the  track  from  the  Atlantic  Ocean  to 
the  Pacific,  and  it  is  understood  that  if  the  railroad  com- 
pany attempts  to  transport  either  passengers  or  freight,  un- 
ler  military  escort,  at  a  given  signal  the  permanent  way  will 
be  torn  up  at  hundreds  of  different  points  all  along  the  line. 
Thus,  even  the  mails  will  be  held  up.  The  intention  of  the 
strikers  is  to  paralyze  the  entire  trade  of  the  country,  and, 
since  the  numbers  of  police  and  troops  in  the  country  are 
utterly  inadequate  to  protect  the  thousands  of  miles  of  per- 
manent way,  it  seems  more  than  likely  the  strikers'  orders 
will  have  to  be  implicitly  obeyed,  or  a  reign  of  anarchy  will 
set  in.  It  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  here  in  the  twen- 
tieth century,"  etc.,  etc. 

Angus  looked  from  the  paper  at  his  message  to  Alexander 
Hendrie,  and  his  pursed  lips  emitted  a  low  whistle. 

"It  looks  like " 

He  was  muttering  to  himself  of  the  impossibility  of  the 
millionaire's  return,  when  the  door  communicating  with  the 
house  was  unceremoniously  flung  open,  and  Phyllis  hurried 
in. 

"Mr.  Moraine,"  she  cried,  a  little  breathlessly,  holding 
out  a  telegraph  slip.  "I  want  you  to  get  this  off  at  once. 

don't  want  to  send  it  by  any  of  the  house  servants.  It's 
o  Mr.  Hendrie.  He — he — must  come  back  at  once," 

Angus  scowled.  He  eyed  the  paper  and  finally  took  it 
rom  her  hand  in  no  very  friendly  manner.  If  there  was  one 
hing  he  hated  on  earth  it  was  for  women  to  mix  themselves 
ip  with  affairs. 

He  began  to  read  the  message,  but  Phyllis  gave  him  no 

25 


370  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

time  to  finish  it.  She  was  as  near  despair  as  ever  she  had 
been  in  all  her  young  life. 

"He  must  get  right  back,"  she  declared  passionately. 
"It's — it's — Mrs.  Hendrie.  I've  just  left  Doctor  Eraser." 
Suddenly  tears  leaped  into  her  distressed  eyes.  "He  says — 
if — if  we  are  to  save  her  she'll  need  to  be— be  operated  on 
right  away.  Oh,  it's  awful!  You — you  must  just  get  him 
back,  and  he  must  bring  a — specialist  with  him.  Ah — what?" 

Angus  pointed  at  the  newspaper.  Its  headlines  were 
staring  up  from  the  desk  in  all  their  painful  crudity. 

"See  that?"  he  demanded,  in  his  sharp  way.  Then  he 
picked  the  paper  up,  and  held  it  out  to  her.  "Read  it. 
There."  He  pointed  at  the  paragraph  relating  to  the 
transport  of  passengers.  "I  don't  just  see  how  he's  to  get 
back  here  with  a  doctor  or  anything  else.  He's  wanted 
right  here  for  other  things,  too,  but " 

"Other  things?" 

The  man  nodded. 

"We'll  have  a  strike  here  of  our  own — to-night.  All 
hands.  Over  three  hundred  of  'em." 

But  the  girl  was  devouring  the  news.  As  she  read,  her 
heart  sank,  and  all  hope  was  completely  dashed.  The  threat- 
ening tears  overflowed  down  her  cheeks.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  felt  utterly  helpless. 

"But  he  must,  he  must,  he  must  come?"  she  cried  des- 
perately. "Don't  you  understand?  It  means  Mrs.  Hendrie's 
life  if  he  doesn't  bring  help.  Oh,  don't  sit  there  staring. 
Do  something.  You — you've  got  to  get  him  here,  somehow 
— with  a — a  surgeon.  Strike?  Do  you  think  we  can  let 
strikes  stand  in  the  way — when  her  life  depends  on  it?  Let 
him  come  by  'special' — anything  so  we  get  him  here.  Oh !" 

Her  hands  flung  together  in  an  impotent  gesture  of  des- 
peration with  her  final  exclamation,  and  even  the  cold  heart 
of  the  manager  was  moved. 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  seat. 

"Easy,  girl,"  he  cried.  "You're  talking  foolish.  You 
got  to  keep  cool,  and  we'll  think  this  thing  out.  I  guess 
Mrs.  Hendrie's  turn  was  sudden,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"And  the  Doc's  let  her  run  to  the  last  before  he  guessed 
how  things  were.  It's  their  way — some  of  'em.  How  long's 
she  got?  You  see,  Hendrie's  hung  up — same  as  other  folks. 


THE    STRIKE  371 

It's  no  use  talking  of  Specials,'  but  the  wire's  still  open. 
Now,  see  here,  if  we've  got  time,  maybe  he  can  make  it  in  an 
automobile.  It's  up  to  him,  and  I  don't  guess  much'll  stop 
him  when  he  knows  how  things  are.  You  find  out  what  time 
the  Doc  gives  her,  and  I'll  wire.  You  see,  sometimes  these 
things—  What's  that?" 

Angus  held  up  a  hand  and  sat  listening. 

Far  away  it  seemed,  a  low,  soft  note  droned  in  through 
the  open  window.  It  was  a  deep,  purring  sound  like  the  hum 
of  the  wind  in  overhead  telegraph  wires. 

Suddenly  the  man  sprang  from  his  seat.  He  went  to  the 
outer  door  and  flung  it  open.  The  girl  followed,  and  stood 
beside  him.  The  sound  grew  louder.  At  last  the  man 
turned.  His  excitement  had  given  place  to  his  usual  taci- 
turn expression.  He  shook  his  head  ominously. 

"That's  Hendrie's  automobile,"  he  said.  "If  he's  in  it— 
there's  a  hell  of  a  poor  chance  of  getting  a  surgeon  from 
Winnipeg." 

But  Phyllis  made  no  answer.  She  was  staring  out  down 
the  trail,  watching,  watching  for  the  coming  of  the  vehicle, 
in  the  hope  that  Hendrie  was  not  with  it. 

The  moment  passed.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  she  cried  out, 
and  stood  with  outstretched  arm  pointing. 

"Look,"  she  cried.     "Look,  look!     It  is— Mr.  Hendrie." 

A  few  moments  later  the  great  machine  rolled  up.  The 
millionaire,  at  sight  of  Angus  and  Phyllis,  signed  to  the 
driver,  and,  instead  of  going  on  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
the  machine  drew  up  at  the  office  door.  He  leaped  to  the 
ground  and  came  over  to  them  at  once. 

"I  just  made  it,"  he  cried.  "Got  the  last  train  out  of 
Winnipeg.  They've  closed  down  tighter  than  hell.  There's 
not  a  locomotive  running  in  the  country  to-day — except  to 
carry  mails.  Just  the  loco  and  caboose — that's  all.  I  was 
dead  in  luck.  Inside  information  put  me  wise.  Say — 
there's  going  to  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

"There  sure  is,"  replied  Angus  grimly.  "Say,  just  come 
right  in.  There's  things — doing." 

Hendrie  glanced  sharply  into  the  man's  face.  Then  his 
eyes  turned  quickly  upon  Phyllis.  But  he  followed  his  man- 
ager into  the  office  without  a  word. 

Inside  Angus  pushed  a  chair  forward  for  the  millionaire's 


372  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


accommodation.     But  the  latter  made  no  attempt  to  use  it. 

"Well?"  he  demanded,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
"What's— doing?" 

Angus  shrugged  and  picked  up  the  message  he  had  written 
out.  He  handed  it  to  him. 

"Guess  that'll  tell  you — quickest,"  he  said. 

The  millionaire  took  the  paper.  As  he  read  the  long 
message  it  contained,  his  eyes  lit,  and  a  half  smile  stirred 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

Finally  he  looked  up  into  the  Scot's  face. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "We've  guessed  that  all  along.  That's 
not  worrying  any  of  us.  You  got  my  message?  The  deal's 
through.  Every  grain  of  wheat  on  Deep  Willows  is  sold 
in  the  ear.  I've  sold  no  more,  but  I  stand  a  personal  guaran- 
tee for  the  rest.  You  see,  I've  a  notion  that  the  risk  lies 
in  my  property — only.  Nowhere  else.  My  guarantee  for 
the  rest  of  the  trust  farmers,  which  includes  your  prop- 
erty, goes.  The  trust  must  get  the  full  benefit  of  the  mar- 
ket. This  is  its  first  year  of  operation,  and  I  want  to  show 
a  good  result.  Strike  or  no  strike,  we've  got  them  beaten 
to  a  mush.  The  trust  just  gets  to  work  as  per  schedule. 
Say,  they  can't  hurt  us  a  thing.  Even  this  railroad  strike 
can't  seriously  interfere.  All  it  will  do,  if  it  only  lasts  long 
enough,  is  to  send  up  the  price  of  the  crop.  That's  not 
going  to  worry  us  a  little " 

At  that  moment  Phyllis,  unable  to  contain  herself  longer, 
made  a  move  towards  the  millionaire.  Angus  saw  the  move- 
ment, and  Hendrie  became  aware  of  it  as  his  manager's  eyes 
were  turned  upon  the  girl. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  he  cried,  still  buoyant  in  his  confidence, 
"guess  I'd  forgotten  you.  Eh?" 

Phyllis  was  holding  up  her  message.  The  message  she 
had  brought  for  Angus  to  dispatch. 

"What,  more  trouble?"  cried  Hendrie,  taking  the  paper 
with  a  laugh. 

Phyllis  made  no  answer.  She  felt  sick  at  heart.  Her 
unaccustomed  eyes  had  not  yet  adjusted  their  focus  to  mat- 
ters involving  life  and  death.  Besides,  since  she  had  first 
encountered  Monica  upon  the  trail,  a  great  affection  had 
steadily  grown  lip  in  her  heart  for  the  woman,  who,  later, 
she  had  learned,  was  the  woman  whom  Frank  had  always 


THE    STRIKE  373 

regarded  as  his  mother.  Now,  to  her  inexperienced  mind, 
there  seemed  to  be  no  hope  for  her,  whichever  way  she  looked. 
She  was  pinning  her  faith  to  this  man  whose  strength  and 
dominating  force  alone  seemed  possible  in  such  an  emer- 
gency. She  waited,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  watching 
for  that  ray  of  hope  she  dared  to  think  his  expression  as  he 
read  might  afford  her. 

But  her  hopes  fell  completely,  still  further  below  the  zero 
at  which  they  had  stood.  First,  as  she  watched,  she  saw  that 
ominous  drawing  together  of  the  man's  heavy  brows,  then, 
the  naturally  cold  gray  of  his  eyes  seemed  to  change.  Their 
stony  gleam  shone  like  the  pinnacles  of  an  iceberg  in  the 
light  of  a  winter  sun.  Then  they  lit  with  a  sudden  violent 
emotion,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  strength  she  was 
relying  upon  was  about  to  fail  her. 

He  looked  up  from  the  paper  which  fluttered  to  the  floor 
from  fingers  which  no  longer  seemed  to  obey  the  controlling 
will.  He  looked  at  Angus  for  a  moment  in  a  sort  of  dazed 
inquiry.  Then  his  gaze  sought  the  girl,  and  the  storm  burst. 

"God  in  heaven!"  he  cried. 

It  was  the  exclamation  of  a  mind  which  scarcely  grasps 
the  reality  of  the  position,  and  yet  has  received  the  full 
shock. 

"Why  was  I  not  told?"  he  demanded  fiercely.  "Why, 
in  God's  name,  was  it  left  till  now?  You  Angus!  You 
girl !"  He  turned  furiously  from  one  to  the  other.  "Do  you 
know  what  you've  done?  Do  you?"  He  laughed  wildly.  "Of 
course  you  do?  You've  timed  it.  Timed  it,  do  you  hear? 
So  it's  impossible  to  get  poor  Mon  the  help  she  needs.  Oh, 
as  if  I  can't  see.  Am  I  blind?  Am  I  an  imbecile?  You, 
you  rotten  Scot,  you've  always  hated  her.  I  saw  it  from 
the  first.  And  now  maybe  you're  satisfied.  As  for  you, 
girl" — he  turned  upon  Phyllis  with  upraised  arms,  as  though 
about  to  strike  her  to  the  ground — "you're  as  bad.  You 
wanted  your  revenge  for  what  your  man  has  been  made  to 
suffer.  That's  it.  Oh,  God,  that  I  should  have  been  so 
blind!  Was  there  ever  such  a  devilish  vengeance?  You, 
with  your  mild  ways  and  simple  air,  you've  stolen  into  my 
house  that  you  might  break  my  heart  to  square  with  me 
for  your  man's  sufferings.  And  between  you  my  Monica, 
my  poor  Mon,  is  lying  in  extremity,  waiting  for  the  help 


374  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

you  would  deny  her.  You  thought  to  hurt  me,  and  by  God! 
you  have  succeeded,"  he  cried,  his  voice  rising  to  greater 
violence.  "Oh,  yes,  you've  succeeded,  between  you.  You've 
done  more.  You've — you've  killed  her !" 

He  brought  one  great  fist  crashing  down  upon  the  desk. 
Then  he  rushed  on — 

"That  fool  doctor  talks  of  hope.  How  can  there  be  hope? 
I  tell  you  there's  none — not  a  shadow.  There's  not  a  train 
to  go  through.  North,  South,  East  and  West,  we  are 
cut  off  as  if  those  cursed  plains  were  an  ocean.  Hope?"  he 
laughed  harshly.  "There's  as  much  hope  as  there  is  in 
hell.  That  woman'll  be  left  to  die.  Do  you  hear  me?  Die! 
And  between  you,  some  of  you,  you've  killed  her!" 

His  frenzy  was  the  frenzy  of  a  madman.  It  was  a  frenzy 
such  as,  once  before  in  his  life,  he  had  displaj^ed.  All  this 
man's  strength  was  swept  aside  by  the  passionate  torrent 
of  his  dreadful  feelings.  All  power  of  reason  was  lost  to 
him.  No  hysterical  child  could  have  been  weaker  in  its 
mental  balance  than  this  great  savage  man  was  at  that 
moment. 

Phyllis  understood  something  of  this.  Angus  simply 
eyed  him  watchfully.  His  was  not  the  discerning  eye  of 
the  girl.  His  attitude  was  the  outcome  of  a  nature  which 
understood  violence  only  at  its  face  value,  therefore  he  was 
physically  and  mentally  alert.  But  the  girl,  a  mere  child, 
saw  deeper.  And  her  observation  roused  her  own  latent 
courage  and  mentality  to  activity. 

She  saw  that  she  must  fling  herself  into  the  arena  that  he 
might  be  brought  up  to  the  only  fighting  pitch  that  could 
serve  them  all,  that  could  serve  Monica.  She  seized  upon 
his  final  charge  to  attack  him  almost  as  fiercely  as  he  had 
attacked  them. 

"You  are  talking  like  a  child,"  she  cried  recklessly. 
"You're  talking  out  of  a  yellow  strain  that  lies  somewhere 
in  your  own  wicked  heart.  How  dare  you  say  such  things 
to  us — to  me?  It's  you — you  who've  laid  poor  Monica  on 
her  bed  of  sickness.  You,  with  your  cruel  wickedness. 
Your  vile  suspicions.  It  is  you,  alone,  who's  responsible, 
and  you  know  it. 

"Say,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  she  went  on,  her  tone  changing  from 
passionate  anger  to  one  of  taunting  mockery.  "You're  a 


PHYLLIS  GOES  IN  SEARCH  OF  FRANK    375 

*reat  man.  There's  no  one  can  beat  you  when  they  get  up 
igainst  you.  That's  why  you  can  stand  there  bullying  and 
iccusing  us.  You  think  to  crush  us  right  into  the  dust, 
ike — like  slimy  reptiles.  Oh,  you're  a  great  man.  You're 
so  strong." 

Then,  in  a  flash,  her  mockery  was  merged  into  a  fierce 
3hallenge,  the  more  strong  for  her  very  youth  and  girlishness. 

"Prove  it!  Prove  it!"  she  cried.  "Prove  your  power 
igainst  the  fate  barring  your  way.  Don't  stand  there 
iccusing  folks  who're  right  here  to  help  you  all  they  know. 
Save  your  Monica.  There's  time — yes,  I  tell  you  there's 
time — if  you've  the  heart  and  courage  to  do  it !" 

She  stood  before  him,  her  slim  figure  palpitating  with  tfye 
lerce  emotion  his  madness  had  stirred  in  her.  Her  dark 
?yes  flashed  into  his  with  all  the  courage  of  her  young 
icart  shining  in  their  depths.  And  before  it  the  man's 
insane  frenzy  died  abruptly. 

Angus,  watching,  beheld  this  girl's — this  child's — victory, 
ffis  cool  Scotch  brain  marveled,  and  reluctantly  admired, 
ivhile  he  waited  for  the  millionaire's  reply. 

It  came  after  a  long  pause.  It  came  in  the  hard,  cold 
tones  to  which  he  was  used,  when  stress  of  affairs  demanded 
the  concentrated  force  which  lay  behind  his  methods. 

"Run  away,  girl,"  he  cried  harshly.  "Run  away,  and 
leave  me  to  think  this  thing  out.  Guess  I'm  sorry  for 
svhat  I  said Now  I  just  want  to  think." 


CHAPTER    XV 

PHYLLIS    GOES    IN    SEARCH    OF    FRANK 

HENDRIE'S  return  home  became  something  like  an  epoch 
in  the  life  of  Phyllis  Raysun.  It  was  the  moment  of  her 
passing  from  girlhood  to  the  full  maturity  of  a  woman.  She 
began  to  see  with  eyes  more  widely  open,  and  a  mind  whitted 
to  the  keenest  understanding  of  the  actions  and  motives 
of  those  about  her. 

Ever  since  her  first  coming  to  Deep  Willows,  Hendrie, 
with  all  her  reason  for  abhorrence  of  him,  had  never  failed 
to  interest  her.  Nor  was  it  long  before  this  interest  begat 


376  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

forgiveness,  and  even  liking.  His  colossal  powers  for  dealing 
with  affairs  excited  her  youthful  imagination  and  impelled 
admiration.  But  more  than  all  else,  his  evident  passionate 
devotion  to  Monica  appealed  to  her. 

When  he  had  first  learned  that  Monica  was  to  yield  him 
her  woman's  pledge  of  love  and  devotion,  he  had  displayed 
a  side  of  character  she  had  deemed  impossible  in  one  of 
his  obvious  characteristics.  His  boisterous,  almost  youthful 
joy  was  quite  unrestrained.  She  had  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  display  in  anybody,  much  less  in  Hendrie,  the  hard, 
stern  financier.  It  became  painful  and  even  pathetic  in 
such  a  man. 

But  now,  since  the  latest  scene  in  Angus's  office,  she  had 
read  the  real  truth  of  his  personality.  She  had  always 
watched  and  studied  him  closely,  she  had  detected  many 
almost  unaccountable  weaknesses,  but  when  the  climax  in 
her  observations  was  reached  in  his  insane  outburst,  she 
felt  she  held  the  key  to  the  driving  force  which  hurled  him 
so  frequently  blundering  down  the  path  of  life. 

To  her  he  appeared  a  complex  mechanism  tremendously 
organized  in  one  definite  direction,  which  left  all  other 
directions  utterly  uncontrolled.  All  his  life,  it  seemed  to 
her,  he  had  concentrated  his  mind  and  energies  upon  the 
process  of  accumulating  wealth,  and  the  power  of  wealth. 
Nothing  else  had  been  permitted  to  appeal  to  him.  He  had 
rigorously  torn  every  other  inclination  up  by  the  roots  and 
flung  them  aside,  to  be  left  behind  him  in  the  race  to  win 
his  ambitions.  He  had  treated  himself  like  a  mere  thinking 
machine,  a  machine  to  be  driven  in  the  only  direction  in 
which  he  desired  to  think.  He  had  utterly  forgotten  that 
he  was  a  human  being,  created  with  a  hundred  and  one  feel- 
ings, all  of  which  must  be  duly  cared  for,  and  used,  and 
controlled.  The  only  control  over  his  more  human  passions 
he  had  ever  attempted  to  use  must  have  been  of  a  nature 
which  endeavored  to  crush  them  out  of  existence. 

Now  the  result  was  manifest.  Human  nature  had  re- 
belled. Human  nature  was  fighting  for  its  existence.  The 
human  nature  in  him  all  uncontrolled  by  careful,  studied 
training,  drove  him  whithersoever  it  listed.  All  his  great, 
machine-made  brain  broke  down  before  its  tremendous  flood- 
tide,  and  he  was  swept  along  upon  its  bosom  toward  the 


PHYLLIS  GOES  IN  SEARCH  OF  FRANK    377 

>rink  of  disaster.  His  passions  once  stirred,  there  was  no 
elling  where  they  might  bring  him  up.  She  believed  that 
mder  their  influence  he  would  stop  at  nothing. 

Fortunately  it  seemed  that  all  his  passions  were  wrapped 
ip  in  Monica.  She  was  certainly  their  guiding  star,  and 
rom  this  thought  she  drew  comfort  and  hope.  She  felt 
hat  if  Monica  could  only  be  saved,  all  would  be  well  with 
dm.  While,  on  the  other  hand,  her  loss  suggested  to  her 
magination  possibilities  all  too  dreadful  to  contemplate. 

Thus  was  her  fevered  anxiety  stirred  to  its  limits  during 
he  rest  of  the  day,  and  the  following  morning,  Doctor 
•Yaser  was  to  make  his  final  examination  of  his  patient,  and 
;ive  his  definite  verdict  to  the  husband.  Phyllis  dreaded 
hat  verdict.  Whatever  it  might  mean  for  Monica,  it  was 
he  man  for  whom  she  most  feared. 

Her  mind  was  kept  fully  alert  for  all  that  was  passing 
during  the  time  of  waiting.  She  knew  that  Hendrie  kept 
imself  tremendously  busy.  She  knew  that  the  wires  were 
peeding  messages  from  the  house  at  Deep  Willows,  and  it 
equired  little  trouble  to  find  out  that  Professor  Hinkling, 
f  Winnipeg,  was  in  direct  communication  with  the  master 
f  Deep  Willows.  She  ascertained,  too,  that  he  was  the 
Teatest  surgeon  in  the  country  for  all  matters  to  do  with 
lonica's  condition. 

Then  Angus  had  disappeared,  and  Hendrie  was  left  at 
he  head  of  affairs  at  the  farm.  Here,  too,  she  soon  learned 
hat  he  had  been  speeded  to  Calford  in  the  automobile  to 
ndeavor,  by  every  means  known  to  the  power  of  money, 
o  arrange  for  a  special  train  to  be  allowed  to  run  from 
Vmnipeg  to  Calford,  and  bring  the  great  surgeon  to  Mon- 
:a's  aid. 

All  these  things  left  an  atmosphere  of  suppressed  excite- 
icnt  and  anxiety  pervading  the  whole  place,  and,  coupled 
rith  the  strike  of  farm  hands,  which,  as  promised,  began 
t  sundown,  a  chaotic  state  seemed  to  reign  everywhere. 

The  real  crisis  arrived  with  the  hour  of  the  noonday  meal, 
^he  entire  household  was  aware  that  Doctor  Eraser's  report 
ras  due  at  any  moment.  Phyllis  and  the  millionaire  sat 
own  to  their  meal  together.  Neither  required  anything 
o  eat,  and  only  Phyllis  made  any  pretense.  Hendrie  sat 
t  the  head  of  the  great  table,  surrounded  by  all  the  luxury 


378  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 


he  had  heaped  upon  his  wife,  wrapped  in  morose  silence. 
His  attitude  was  such  that  even  Phyllis  feared  to  arouse  the 
storm  she  felt  to  be  brooding  behind  his  sullen  eyes. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  final  course  that  Doctor  Fraser 
made  his  appearance.  Phyllis  felt  her  head  whirl  at  sight 
of  his  pale,  grave  face.  Then,  with  an  effort,  she  pulled 
herself  together,  and  covertly  watched  the  millionaire. 

A  strange  light  had  crept  into  his  eyes,  as  the  thin,  clever 
face  appeared  in  the  doorway.  It  was  a  light  of  desperate 
hope,  of  a  heart  yearning  for  some  trifling  encouragement 
where  conviction  made  all  hope  impossible.  She  pitied  this 
man  of  millions  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

But  Fraser  was  speaking  in  slow,  deliberate  tones.  He 
was  reciting  the  medical  aspect  of  the  case,  and,  though 
only  understanding  half  of  what  he  said,  the  girl  listened 
acutely.  Finally  he  summed  up  the  situation. 

"It  means  this,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture, 
the  significance  of  which  was  quite  unmistakable.  "Nomi- 
nally, I  suppose,  there  are  two  lives  at  stake.  I  contend 
there  is  only  one.  I  think  we  can  put  the  child's  life  out 
of  the  question.  The  complications  are  such  that  there 
is  little  doubt  the  child  would  be  still-born.  Everything 
points  that  way.  Anyway,  in  my  opinion,  the  complications 
are  such  that  it  would  be  absolutely  fatal  to  allow  Mrs. 
Hendrie  to  face  the  labors  of  child-birth.  In  a  younger 
woman  there  might  have  been  a  shadow  of  hope.  In  her 
case  I  am  convinced  there  is  none.  In  my  opinion — mind 
it  is  but  one  man's  opinion — you  have  only  one  alternative. 
The  child  must  be  sacrificed  by  operation." 

Phyllis's  eyes  were  upon  Alexander  Hendrie's  set  face. 
She  beheld  the  strong,  drawn  mouth  twitch  nervously.  She 
also  noted  that  one  great  fist  was  clenched  tightly  as  it 
rested  upon  the  white  cloth  of  the  table. 

She  sighed  as  she  awaited  his  reply. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  head,  and  his  passionate  eyes  shot 
a  swift  inquiry  into  the  doctor's  face. 

"And  the  time  limit — for  the  operation?"  he  asked. 

He  was  thinking  only  of  his  wife.     Phyllis  understood. 

The  doctor  deliberated. 

"A  week.    Perhaps  less." 

Phyllis  caught  her  breath. 


PHYLLIS   GOES  IN  SEARCH  OF  FRANK    379 

"How  much  less?" 

The  exactness  of  Hendrie's  mind  demanded  satisfying. 

"Safety  in  five  days.  Risk  in  seven.  That's  the  utmost 
mit." 

Again  the  girl  caught  her  breath.     Hendrie  did  not  move 

muscle.    Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"Failing — all  else — will — you  undertake  the  operation?" 

Doctor  Fraser  cleared  his  throat. 

"It  is  my  duty,"  he  said  slowly. 

Then  he  passed  one  hand  quickly  across  his  forehead  as 
lough  striving  to  remove  a  weight  from  his  mind. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  let  it  come  to  that,  Mr.  Hendrie," 
?  cried.  "I  am  an  ordinary  practitioner.  This  is  a  des- 
erate  case  for  a  specialist.  If  you  offered  me  a  fee  of 
le  hundred  thousand  dollars  I'd  gladly  refuse  it.  Surely 
DU  can  get  Hinkling  here  in  time." 

Suddenly  Hendrie's  fist  lifted  and  crashed  down  upon  the 
ible. 

"Yes,  by  God,  yes !"  he  cried. 

Then  he  sat  quite  still.  A  moment  later  he  ran  his  fingers 
irough  his  hair,  and  they  remained  there  while  he  spoke 
?ry  quietly. 

"I'd  pay  you  half  a  million,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  deep  voice, 
if  I  thought  you  could  do  this — successfully.  As  it  is  I 
ouldn't  offer  you  ten  cents.  I'm  sorry — Doc — but — 

He  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  heavily  out  of  the 
>om. 

Phyllis  followed  his  example.  As  she  passed  the  doctor 
le  paused. 

"Is  there  no — hope?"  she  asked  pleadingly. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"None — unless  Hinkling  can  be  got  here— in  time." 

She  passed  on  out  of  the  room  without  a  word.  There 
as  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Anyway  she  was  quite  be- 
ond  words. 

Phyllis  went  straight  to  her  bedroom.  She  could  not  go 
>  Monica  yet,  with  the  knowledge  of  what  she  had  just 
^ard.  It  was  dreadful.  It  seemed  utterly,  utterly  hope- 
ss.  Five  days.  Seven  at  the  most.  Seven — and  the  rail- 
>ad  completely  shut  down.  Monica's  life  must  be  sacrificed 
?cause  some  wretched  workman  was  not  satisfied,  or  some 


380  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

equally  absurd  thing.       It  was   too  awful  to  contemplate. 

In  the  extremity  of  her  grief  her  thoughts  strayed  to 
Frank.  It  was  the  natural  womanly  impulse  causing  her 
to  turn  to  the  man  she  loved.  As  the  boy's  image  rose  before 
her  distraught  mind  she  remembered  that  he  belonged  to 
those  who  had  brought  this  desperate  state  of  things  about. 
And  in  her  moment  of  realization  she  cried  out  her  bitter- 
ness— 

"Oh,  Frank,  Frank,  how  could  you?" 

The  words  echoed  through  the  silent  room,  and  came  back 
to  her  with  startling  effect.  She  shivered  at  their  sound, 
and  flung  herself  upon  her  bed  in  a  passion  of  grief.  She 
remained  there  sobbing  for  many  minutes.  The  strain  had 
been  too  much  for  her,  and  now  the  hopelessness  of  it  all 
wrung  her  heart. 

But  after  a  while  the  storm  passed,  and  she  sat  up.  Then, 
once  more,  she  abandoned  herself  to  thought.  Curiously 
enough,  Frank  was  still  uppermost  in  her  mind.  A  wild 
longing,  quite  impossible  to  resist,  to  see  him,  and  tell  him 
of  all  that  had  happened,  possessed  her,  and  she  tried  to 
think  where  he  might  be  found. 

She  did  not  know.  She  could  not  think.  He  was  in  the 
neighborhood.  That  was  certain.  But  where,  where?  She 
paced  the  room  puzzling  her  brains  as  to  how  she  might 
find  him.  Then,  quite  without  realizing  her  actions,  she 
opened  a  drawer  in  her  bureau  and  drew  out  the  riding  suit 
Monica  had  given  her.  She  had  only  worn  it  a  few  times 
before  Monica  had  been  taken  seriously  ill.  She  looked  it 
over.  It  had  been  her  great  pride — once.  Its  divided  skirt 
and  beautiful  long  coat  had  been  a  positive  joy. 

Suddenly  an  irresistible  impulse  made  her  lay  it  out  on 
her  bed.  The  next  moment  she  began  to  remove  her  own 
costume. 

Far  out  on  the  outskirts  of  those  wheat  lands  which 
acknowledged  the  direct  control  of  the  master  of  Deep 
Willows,  at  a  point  where  the  cultivated  land  yielded  to 
the  wood-lined  slopes  of  the  river  valley,  a  great  crowd  of 
men,  made  to  look  almost  insignificant  by  comparison  with 
their  wide  surroundings,  were  listening  eagerly  to  a  speaker, 
perched  upon  the  prostrate  form  of  a  huge  tree  trunk. 


PHYLLIS  GOES   IN   SEARCH  OF  FRANK    381 

[t  was  evening,  and  the  westering  sun  lolled  heavily  upon 
>  skyline,  cradled  in  a  cauldron  of  fiery  cloud  rising  to 
ir  it  upon  its  long  night  journey.  Everywhere  was  the 
}found  peace  when  Nature  composes  itself  for  repose  at 
:  close  of  day.  The  air  was  sweet  with  the  perfume  of 
ening  foliage,  blended  with  the  dank  which  rose  from  the 
:ing  waters  below.  It  was  a  moment  for  peace  and  good- 
1;  it  was  a  moment  when  all  life  should  yield  its  thanks 
•  blessings  bestowed  by  the  unseen  hand  of  Nature;  it 
s  a  moment  when  the  heart  of  man  should  bow  before  the 
?ator  of  a  beneficent  life. 

iret  neither  peace  nor  good-will  reigned.  The  arrogant 
irt  of  man  was  stirred  by  passions  of  discontent,  and  even 
L  Life  and  all  its  benefits  and  blessings  they  possessed, 
i  possessing  them  they  cared  nothing  for  such  possession, 
ese  things  were  forgotten  in  a  craving  for  more.  This 
»wd  was  foregathered  that  it  might  learn  how  best  to 
isfy  its  discontent,  which  had  been  stirred  by  mischievous 
tgues  in  hearts  hitherto  contented. 

Fhe  man  on  the  tree  trunk  was  no  mere  flamboyant  orator 
caching  a  doctrine  of  profound  socialism.  He  was  not 
king  "principle,"  so  beloved  of  the  tub-thumper.  He  was 
re  with  a  mind  packed  full  of  venom  against  one  man,  a 
lorn  he  was  spitting  into  the  ears  of  these  workers  for 
it  one  man's  undoing. 

Fhis  man  had  traveled  far  to  satisfy  his  hatred.  He  had 
b  himself  at  enormous,  inconvenience  to  address  this  meet- 
;.  His  coming,  too,  had  been  heralded  by  other  talkers, 

0  were  his  satellites.     His  audience  had  been  promised  the 
j  of  listening  to  the  words  of  the  greatest  labor  leader  in 

1  country ;    the  privilege  of  hearing  what  the  most  power- 
figure  in  the  country's  labor  movement  had  .to  promise 

an;  what  he  could  do  to  wrest  from  their  employer  a 
;tering  of  their  lot. 

Austin  Leyburn  was  paying  something  like  a  secret  visit 
those  people,  and  so  carefully  had  his  coming  been  nursed 
it  his  words  became  as  the  words  of  divine  inspiration  to 
>se  dull-witted  workers  he  was  addressing, 
ft  was  the  first  evening  of  the  strike  at  Deep  Willows,  and 
coming  had  been  anticipated  in  another  way.  A  liberal 
>ply  of  drink  had  found  its  way  to  the  strikers.  No  one 


382  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

quite  knew  where  it  came  from.  No  one  cared  very  much. 
It  was  there  for  their  indulgence,  and  they  thirstily  availed 
themselves  of  it. 

The  result  was  all  that  might  have  been  hoped  by  those 
whose  mischief  was  at  work.  A  sense  of  elation  prevailed. 
A  sense  of  injustice  against  Alexander  Hendrie  was  upper- 
most in  blurred  minds.  A  vaunting  demand  for  something, 
something  they  did  not  possess,  lay  at  the  back  of  pretty 
well  every  mind,  and  an  arrogant  determination  to  possess 
it  was  stirring.  Then,  too,  prejudice  against  the  colored 
race  became  a  prejudice  no  longer,  it  had  swiftly  lashed 
itself  into  an  active  hatred  that  suggested  grave  possibilities. 

This  was  the  attitude  of  mind  desired,  and  carefully  fos- 
tered, before  the  great  man's  words  could  be  received  as  he 
demanded  they  should  be  received.  Then,  with  a  blare  of 
oratorical  trumpets  he  appeared  in  their  midst. 

It  was  the  perfection  of  organization,  organization  such 
as  only  Austin  Leyburn  understood. 

Frank  had  been  abroad  among  the  smaller  farms  in  the 
district,  pursuing  his  work  with  indifferent  enthusiasm.  Now 
he  was  returning  to  Everton  for  the  night,  weary  in  body, 
but  still  more  weary  in  heart.  His  mind  was  full  of  that 
which  he  had  witnessed  in  Monica's  home.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  mother  he  had  always  known,  lying  in  her  richly  ap- 
pointed sickroom,  crying  out  in  her  delirium  all  the  pain 
and  anguish  through  which  she  had  passed,  and  was  still 
passing. 

Something  was  urging  him  to  hasten  on  his  way,  and, 
hastening,  to  diverge,  and  break  his  journey  at  Deep  Wil- 
lows. He  felt  that  he  could  not  pass  another  night,  he  could 
not  endure  another  day  of  the  work  that  had  somehow  grown 
so  distasteful  to  him,  without  ascertaining  Monica's  con- 
dition. It  was  little  more  than  twenty-four  hours  since  his 
mind  and  heart  had  been  distracted  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance by  a  sight  of  her  sufferings.  And  during  those  few 
hours  he  seemed  to  have  passed  through  an  eternity. 

His  way  brought  him  along  the  north  bank  of  the  river. 
It  was  a  short  cut  to  the  boundary  of  Hendrie's  wheat  lands, 
which  he  must  skirt  on  his  journey  to  Everton.  His  horse 
was  tired.  It  had  been  under  the  saddle  since  noon. 

He  had  been  riding  along  the  lower  slopes  down  by  the 


PHYLLIS  GOES  IN  SEARCH  OF  FRANK    383 

•iver  bank,  and,  as  he  came  to  the  limits  of  Deep  Willows, 
le  dismounted  and  led  the  weary  creature  up  the  steep  sides 
>f  the  valley. 

It  was  just  as  he  neared  the  shoulder  of  the  rising  ground 
hat  a  sudden  burst  of  cheering  startled  his  horse  and  made 
t  lunge  backwards,  and  it  was  some  moments  before  Frank 
:ould  pacify  it.  At  last,  however,  he  induced  the  frightened 
>east  to  stand.  Then  he  hitched  it  to  a  bush  and  moved 
'orward  on  foot. 

He,  too,  had  been  startled,  but  he  guessed  something  of 
le  meaning  of  the  cheering.  He  had  heard  so  much  of  that 
rt  of  thing  lately.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  whole  life 
as  spent  listening  to  crowds  of  dishevelled  creatures  cheer- 
ig  men  who  made  them  promises  which  could  never  be  ful- 
led. 

He  made  his  way  through  the  foliage,  and  as  he  feared 
s  fringe  he  moved  more  cautiously.  Nor  was  he  aware 
P  his  caution.  There  was  no  reason  for  it.  If  this  were 
hat  he  suspected  it  was,  a  strike  meeting,  it  was  surely 
duty  to  witness  it.  However,  his  movements  became 
lutious,  even  furtive. 

A  moment  later  he  was  glad  they  had  been  so,  for,  as  he 
ushed  the  last  of  the  bush  aside,  and  beheld  the  crowd 
?yond,  and  saw  the  figure  of  Austin  Leyburn  addressing 
,  and  heard  his  powerful  voice  hurling  invective  against 
lexander  Hendrie  from  his  tree  trunk,  he  thanked  his  stars 
lat  his  presence  was  unknown. 

Austin  Leyburn  here!  Austin  Leyburn  in  the  neighbor- 
ood  of  Deep  Willows,  while  the  great  railroad  strike  was 
i  full  operation!  It  was  almost  unbelievable. 
These  were  something  of  Frank's  amazed  thoughts  as  he 
atched  the  gesticulating  figure  silhouetted  against  the 
jddy  skyline. 

But  now,  as  he  stood,  the  man's  words  reached  him,  and, 
i  a  moment,  their  startling  purpose  held  him  spellbound. 
What  was  that  he  was  saying?     Hark! 
!  Leyburn's  harsh  voice  rang  out  in  clarion  tones — 
I  "I  hadn't  intended  to  come  along  yet,  boys,"  he  was  say- 
ing.    "I  hadn't  intended  to  come  till  next  year.     You  see, 
pis  is  a  new  union,  and  funds  are  not  big.     It  needs  money 
>  fight  these  gilded  hogs.     But  when  I  saw  the  way  things 


384  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

were  going;  when  I  heard  the  way  you  were  herded  along- 
side a  crowd  of  lousy  niggers,  and  set  to  work  with  'em,  like 
a  pack  of  galley  slaves ;  when  I  heard  these  things,  and 
learned  that  these  dirty  blacks  were  taking  the  place  of 
legitimate  white  workers  for  less  wages,  then  my  blood  just 
got  red  hot,  and  I  couldn't  sleep  o'  nights.  Say,  boys,  it 
broke  me  all  up.  I  couldn't  eat  nor  sleep  till  I'd  rushed 
through  a  financial  arrangement  with  other  labor  organiza- 
tions, which  sets  you  clear  beyond  the  chances  of  want. 
There's  money  and  plenty  for  a  strike  right  now.  Money 
and  plenty  to  kill  the  harvest  of  these  swine  of  men  who 
roll  about  in  their  automobiles,  every  bolt  of  which,  every 
soft  cushion  they  sit  on,  has  been  paid  for  by  the  sweat  of 
your  big  hearts. 

^What's  your  wages?  A  dollar  a  day?  Don't  you  wish 
it  was?  Don't  you  wish  they'd  let  you  have  it?  I  was 
going  to  say  'earn'  it.  By  hell,  earn  it!  You're  earning 
hundreds  a  day  for  this  skunk  of  a  man,  Hendrie.  Hundreds 
and  hundreds.  Say,  he's  got  millions,  no  one  knows  how 
rich  he  is,  and  you  boys  are  the  fellows  who  earn  it  for  him. 
Do  you  get  that?  Do  you  get  its  meaning  right?  Here's 
one  man  sits  around  on  top,  with  you  boys  lying  around 
whining  at  his  feet  for  a  fraction  of  the  result  of  your  own 
work." 

Frank  murmured  the  word  "syndicalism"  to  himself.  But 
the  rabid  tongue  of  Leyburn  was  still  at  work. 

"Say,  d'you  know  what  set  war  raging  between  the  north- 
ern and  southern  states?  Do  you  know  what  set  sons  and 
fathers  at  each  other's  throats?  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  the 
high-minded  folk  of  the  north  couldn't  stand  for  slavery, 
even  of  the  blacks.  Do  you  know  what  you  are  to-day? 
You're  slaves,  slaves  of  this  man — white  slaves.  'Out  you 
go  into  my  fields,'  he  says,  'and  I'll  let  you  live — just  live — 
that's  all.  His  fields,  mark  you.  His !  By  what  right  arc 
they  his?  Ain't  they  yours?  Didn't  the  Creator  set  you 
out  here  just  the  same  as  him,  and  hand  you  this  world 
for  your  own  ?  His  fields !  And  out  you  go  into  them,  and 
you  grind,  and  sweat,  and  you  fill  his  safe  full  of  money,  so 
he  can  live  in  a  luxury  you  can  never  enjoy." 

"The  cur,"  muttered  the  listener.  "The  miserable  cur." 
Something  stirred  behind  him,  but  it  remained  unnoticed. 


PHYLLIS   GOES  IN   SEARCH  OF  FRANK    385 

I  "Listen  to  me,"  Leyburn  shouted  above  the  hubbub  of 
jgrecment  and  applause  which  arose  from  the  half-drunken 
iortion  of  the  crowd.  "Do  you  know  what's  going  to  hap- 
[en  right  here,  quite  soon?  Course  you  don't.  You  don't 
now  these  gilded  hogs  same  as  I  do.  I'll  tell  you  what's 
[oing  to  happen.  Hendrie  told  me  himself.  He  says  nig- 
rers  are  easier  dealt  with  than  whites.  He  says  he  can  get 
hem  cheaper.  He  says  they  work  just  as  well.  He  says 
je'll  run  Deep  Willows  on  black  labor  entirely — soon,  just 
Is  soon  as  he  can  get  enough  of  'em.  He  cares  nothing 
pr  any  of  you,  not  even  for  you  boys  who've  worked  years 
pr  him.  Out  you  got  to  go — the  lot  of  you,  so  he  can 
|iake  bigger  money  out  of  the  black.  Get  that?  You  know 
!hat  it  means  to  you?  Will  you  stand  for  it?" 

A  great  shout  of  "no"  accompanied  by  a  yell  of  blasphemy 
^eeted  his  challenge. 

j  "All  lies,  lies,  lies,"  muttered  the  listening  man,  and  a 
bft-voiced  echo  from  somewhere  behind  agreed  with  him. 
|  "Of  course  you  won't,"  Leyburn  roared,  with  a  harsh 
jugh.  "And  that's  why  I'm  right  here  talking  to  you, 
:*cause  you're  the  real  grit.  You've  quit  work  to-night, 
ad  you're  going  to  get  your  strike  pay  right  away,  and 
hen  you  get  it,  I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  do,  if  you'd  beat 
pis  skunk  into  treating  you  right.  There's  his  crop — worth 
lindreds  of  thousands  of  dollars.  You  reckon  to  let  it  rot 
i;  harvest.  Will  it  rot?  Mind  he's  still  got  his  rotten 
jack  slaves.  Do  you  know  what  he'll  do?  No,  you  hadn't 
jiought  of  it.  But  I'll  tell  you.  He'll  set  them  to  work  it. 
iKhile  you're  making  a  stand  for  labor,  his  black  slaves'll 
:>b  you  of  the  fruits  of  your  work.  See?" 

Another  fierce  shout  went  up  from  the  audience,  and  the 
J>eaker  grinned  his  delight. 

I  Frank  waited  breathlessly  for  what  was  to  follow,  and  a 
1  w  sigh,  like  the  breath  of  the  night  breeze  in  the  trees, 
I  unded  behind  him. 

I  "Now,  you're  going  to  beat  him,  and  I'll  show  you  how. 
Ske  this  ?"  Leyburn  drew  a  box  of  matches  from  his  pocket, 
i|id  help  it  up  for  all  to  see. 

|  "Fire  the  damned  crop,"  shouted  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 
ipd  in  a  moment  the  word  "fire"  roared  from  a  hundred 
lingues. 


386  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

The  speaker  nodded  and  laughed. 

"That's  it,"  he  cried.  "Make  a  big  bluff  at  him,  and 
he's  got  to  weaken.  He  won't  listen  without,  so  he'll  have 
to  be  made  to  listen.  Fire  his  crop,  and  you  steal  his  purse. 
It's  fair  game.  This  is  war — labor  war.  Fire  his  crop,  and 
he's  on  his  knees,  and  you  can  make  your  own  terms.  The 
damned  niggers  don't  amount  to  a  row  of  shucks.  If  they 
butt  in,  out  'em.  Get  after  'em  with  a  gun,  shoot  'em  up 
— the  crowd  of  you.  Then  the  government'll  get  busy  and 
stop  black  labor  in  a  white  country.  They  can't  afford  to 
quarrel  with  the  workers.  They  want  their  votes.  They're 
yearning  for  office.  Get  redhot  after  the  niggers  and  out 
'em.  Chase  'em  back  to  the  place  they  belong.  Are  you  on  ?" 

A  great  cheer  rose  from  the  crowd.  It  was  prolonged. 
And  with  it  was  the  laugh  of  mischief  Leyburn  wanted  to 
hear.  He  knew  that  he  had  tickled  their  sense  of  humor, 
and  love  of  violent  horse-play.  Firing  the  crop  appealed. 
But,  even  more,  the  routing  of  the  niggers  would  be  a  joy 
not  readily  missed. 

"That's  it,"  Leyburn  cried.  "But  before  I've  done  I 
want  to  say  right  here " 

Frank  passed  one  great  hand  across  his  perspiring  fore- 
head. It  was  unbelievable  that  it  could  be  Leyburn  urging 
these  men  to  nothing  less  than  anarchy  and  crime.  He  could 
scarcely  credit  his  ears.  Yet  there  it  was — and  he  was  still 
speaking. 

A  furious  and  utter  loathing  for  the  man,  even  for  the 
cause  of  the  benighted  worker,  rose  up  in  his  heart  and 
sickened  him. 

"It's  awful!"  he  said  aloud. 

"It's  the  saddest  sight  I've  seen  in  my  life." 

Frank  swung  round  at  the  sound  of  the  voice.  In  a 
moment  his  arms  were  outstretched. 

"Phyl!"  he  cried.     "You?" 

Phyllis  caught  his  hands  and  held  them  tightly. 

"Yes,  Frank.  I've — I've  been  chasing  for  you  all  the 
afternoon.  Say " 

"Oh,  Phyl,  Phyl,  did  you  hear?  Did  you  hear  all  that 
man  said?"  Frank  broke  in.  "That's  Austin  Leyburn. 
That's  the  man  to  whom  my  duty  is  pledged.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  lying,  despicable  traitor  to  humanity?  He  tells 


PHYLLIS  CAUGHT  His  HANDS  AND  HELD  THEM  TIGHTLY 


PHYLLIS  GOES  IN  SEARCH  OF  FRANK    387 

them  to  burn — to  kill  their  fellows.  And  that's  the  man 
whom  I  have  been  helping.  Never,  never,  never  again.  Just 
God!  I  have  done  with  it  all.  Was  there  ever  such  vile 
criminal  teaching  or  methods?  Thank  God,  my  eyes  are 
open  to  it  all — at  last." 

Phyllis  drew  his  two  hands  toward  her  and  placed  them 
about  her  neck.  Then  she  reached  up  to  him,  tip-toeing,  and 
kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

"And  I  thank  God  too,  dear." 

The  man  drew  her  to  him  in  a  great  embrace. 

"Never  again,  Phyl,"  he  said  more  calmly,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "Never  again,  so  long  as  I  live."  He  kissed  her 
tenderly. 

Then,  as  the  strident  tones  of  Leyburn  still  reached  them, 
the  girl  looked  up. 

"Frank,"  she  cried,  with  a  slight  start.  "I  had  almost 
forgotten.  You  made  me  forget.  I — I  came  to  find  you. 
I  want  you  to  come  back  to  Deep  Willows.  Will  you  come? 
Mr.  Hendrie  is  there." 

"Alexander  Hendrie?" 

"Yes." 

The  man  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  the  girl's  eyes 
became  intensely  earnest. 

"Will  you  come  and  tell  him — what  we  have  heard — to- 
night ?"  she  ,  begged.  "Will  you  come  and  tell  him — what 
you  have  told  me?  But  it's  not  that  I  want  you  for  most. 
There's  trouble  around.  Desperate  trouble  for — for  Mon- 
ica." She  clasped  her  hands  in  her  anxiety.  "Oh,  come — 
come  and  help.  Come  and  help  us — her.  Doctor  Fraser 
says  she  cannot  live  unless — unless  she  is  operated  on  by— 
by  a  surgeon  from  Winnipeg.  But  the  railroad  strike  has 
made  it  impossible  to  get  him — in  time." 

Frank  started  back  and  his  arms  dropped  abruptly  from 
about  the  girl's  slim  body. 

"Monica?"  he  cried.  "Monica  dying?"  Then,  with  a 
gasp.  "Oh,  God,  and  I  helped  to  make  that  strike !" 


388      THE  WAY  OF  THE  STRONG 
CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

ALEXANDER  HENDRIE  started  round  at  the  sound  of  the 
servant's  voice. 

He  was  in  the  library.  Night  had  fallen,  and  the  room 
was  in  darkness.  He  had  been  staring  blankly  at  one  of 
the  windows,  across  which  the  curtains  had  not  yet  been 
drawn.  For  hours  his  mind  had  been  concentrated  upon 
the  one  eternal  problem  which  confronted  him.  He  was 
beset  with  doubts,  hopes,  fears,  each  one  of  which  he  exam- 
ined closely,  dismissed  or  accepted,  and  pigeon-holed  the 
latter  in  the  back  cells  of  memory  for  future  use. 

The  man  was  obsessed  with  one  idea  only.  The  fulfilment 
of  Doctor  Fraser's  demands,  and  the  saving  of  the  one 
precious  life  which  was  far  more  to  him  than  his  own.  The 
nervous  tension  at  which  his  efforts  left  him  made  him  liter- 
ally jump  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  the  man  who  had 
entered  the  room  so  silently. 

"Miss  Raysun  would  be  glad  to  know  if  you  would  spare 
her  a  few  minutes,  sir.  She  say's  it's  a  matter  of  import- 
ance." 

The  millionaire  swung  his  chair  about,  and  faced  the  man 
in  the  darkness. 

"Turn  on  the  lights,"  he  said  sharply.  "You  can  draw 
the  curtains;  then  tell  Miss  Raysun  to  come  right  along." 

The  electric  switch  clicked  and  the  room  was  flooded  with 
light.  Then  the  servant  crossed  the  room  silently  and  drew 
the  curtains.  Then  he  moved  over  to  the  door,  hesitated, 
and  finally  stopped. 

"She  has  some  one  with  her,  sir,"  he  said  doubtfully. 

This  man  was  in  full  possession  of  the  gossip  of  the  house. 
Besides,  he  valued  his  position. 

"Who?" 

Hendrie's  question  came  with  an  alert  inflection.  He  un- 
derstood the  man's  doubt. 

"It's  Mr.  Smith— Mr.  Frank  Smith— I  think,  sir." 

"Well?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone  of  the  second  inquiry. 
The  man  hastened  to  remedy  his  mistake. 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE  389 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  I — I  thought  I'd  just  mention  it." 

"That  will  do." 

Hendric  appeared  to  occupy  himself  with  the  papers  on 
his  desk  as  the  man  hurried  out. 

But  the  moment  he  was  alone  the  millionaire  gave  up  the 
pretense.  Again  he  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  gazed  un- 
blinkingly  at  the  reading  lamp  before  him.  All  in  a  mo- 
ment, it  seemed,  from  comparative  indifference  at  Phyllis's 
desire  for  an  interview,  his  mood  had  leaped  to  impatience 
for  her  coming.  Frank  was  with  her — why?  Here,  at  a 
moment  when  he  knew  he  was  face  to  face  with,  perhaps, 
the  greatest  disaster  of  his  life;  here,  when  almost  every 
man's  hand  seemed  to  be  turning  against  him;  here,  when 
all  his  powers  of  achievement  were  being  taxed  to  the  limit, 
he  was  to  be  confronted  with  his  own  natural  son,  Frank. 
Again  his  groping  mind  questioned — why? 

Thought  traveled  swiftly  back  over  other  scenes,  scenes 
he  would  gladly  have  shut  out  of  memory — now.  But  they 
were  always  there  ready  to  confront  him  with  his  own  mis- 
doings. He  thought  of  the  poor  woman  on  the  lonely  Yukon 
trail.  He  thought  of  the  hardships  with  which  she  must 
have  been  beset.  He  thought  of  the  young  life-burden  she 
had  been  bearing.  Then  he  remembered  the  stalwart  youth 
who  had  refused  to  betray  Monica's  secret,  preferring  to 
face  penal  servitude  as  an  alternative.  Then  he  remem- 
bered the  honest  youth  championing  the  cause  of  the  op- 
pressed before  his  cold  argument.  And  again  he  questioned 
the  meaning  of  his  coming  now. 

But  his  reflections  were  cut  short.  He  glanced  across  at 
the  door  as  it  opened,  and  Phyllis  hurried  in.  She  was  still 
dressed  in  her  riding  suit,  her  face  and  eyes,  beneath  the 
soft,  wide-brimmed  prairie  hat  she  was  wearing,  shining 
with  an  excitement  she  could  hardly  restrain.  Behind  her 
came  the  great  figure  of  Frank,  and  the  millionaire's  eyes 
were  for  him  alone. 

He  rose  and  silently  placed  a  chair  for  the  girl.  But 
Phyllis  refused  it  and  remained  standing.  She  turned  to 
Frank. 

"You  sit  down,  Frank,"  she  said,  with  a  peremptoriness 
begot  of  her  excitement. 

Without  thinking  the  man  obeyed. 


390  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Hendrie's  eyes  were  still  upon  him. 

"Well?"  he  inquired,  almost  gently. 

Frank  glanced  up  at  the  girl.  The  situation  troubled  him. 
But  the  memory  of  the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed  was 
still  with  him,  and  his  sudden  and  utter  loathing  for  the 
man  Ley burn  sent  hot  words  surging  to  his  lips. 

"I  hadn't  a  thought  to  come  here,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  he  cried, 
on  the  impulse  of  his  feelings.  "Maybe  you  won't  thank 
me  for  it,  anyway.  Still,  I've  got  to  tell  you  things.  I've 
come  to  tell  you,  you  were  right,  and  I  was  all  wrong.  I've 
come  to  tell  you  there's  no  honesty  in  these  professional 
leaders  of  labor — to  tell  you  that  the  whole  game  is  a  baser 
and  far  worse  side  of  the  competition  of  life  than  is  that 
of  the  men  it  is  directed  against.  Yes,  I  see  it  all  now. 
The  bonding  of  labor  is  the  raising  of  an  army  of  physical 
force,  normally  to  work  peacefully  for  its  common  welfare, 
but,  in  reality,  to  tyrannize  and  to  wrest  by  any  means  in 
its  power,  by  violence,  by  fire,  by  bloodshed,  if  necessary, 
those  benefits  which  it  covets,  regardless  of  all  right  and 
justice,  and  which,  individually,  its  members  have  not  the 
capacity  to  achieve  honestly  for  themselves.  I  want  to  tell 
you  this  now  while  my  heart  is  burning  with  the  realization 
of  the  truth;  while  my  eyes  are  open  to  the  deviltry  of 
these  men  who  endeavor  to  blind  the  world  to  their  own 
selfish  motives  by  crying  out  in  the  name  of  justice  and  fair 
dealing.  There  is  no  justice  in  them.  It  is  all  self,  and  the 
purblind  workers  are  the  helpless  tools  by  which  they  seek 
to  achieve  their  ends.  I  have  done  with  it  forever.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  universal  brotherhood — there  never  can  be. 
You  are  right.  So  long  as  human  nature  remains  human 
nature,  self  will  dominate  the  world,  and  charity  must  become 
a  luxury  for  moments  of  cessation  from  hostilities  in  the 
battle  of  life." 

The  tide  of  the  man's  hot  words  swept  on  without  pause 
for  a  second,  and  both  Phyllis  and  the  millionaire  knew 
they  came  from  his  heart. 

But  now,  having  made  clear  his  own  feelings,  he  rushed 
headlong  to  the  warning  he  had  to  impart. 

"It  doesn't  matter — the  details — how  I  witnessed  it,  how 
Phyllis,  here,  shared  with  me  in  the  contemplation  of  a 
scene  such  as  we  never  want  to  witness  again.  It  was  the 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE  391 

man  I  have  been  working  with,  the  most  prominent  figure 
in  the  labor  movement  of  this  country,  the  man  who  has 
organized  the  railroad  strike  which  is  to  bar  the  way  to 
the  help  my  moth — Mrs.  Hendrie  needs,  talking  to  your 
workers  who  are  on  strike." 

"Austin  Leyburn,"  said  Hendrie  dryly. 

"Yes,"  cried  Frank.  "That  is  the  scoundrel  who  dis- 
guises his  villainous  heart  under  a  cloak  of  philanthropy. 
That  is  the  man.  He  has  come  down  here  secretly,  leaving 
his  legitimate  work  at  Calford  and  Winnipeg  to  incite  your 
hands  to  burn  your  crop  out*  and  to  drive  the  niggers  off 
the  land  by  violence,  by  shooting  them  down.  Why  he  has 
come  is  beyond  my  comprehension.  I  can  only  imagine  that 
he  has  some  personal  grievance  against  you  which  he  wishes 
to  satisfy.  Whatever  it  is  the  fact  remains.  The  men  have 
been  made  half  drunk,  when  they  cannot  be  wholly  respon- 
sible for  their  actions,  and  he  is  urging  them  to  burn  you 
out  and  shoot  up  the  niggers.  Mr.  Hendrie,  something's 
got  to  be  done  at  once.  I  don't  know  what,  I  don't  know 
how,  but  that  man  is  driving  them  to  a  great  crime  which 
they  would  never  otherwise  dream  of.  That  crime  must 
be  stopped.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  think  how.  But  I  can't. 
You — you,  Mr.  Hendrie.  It  is  for  you  to  think  of  this 
thing,  and  whatever  your  plan  you  can  count  on  me  for — 
anything." 

Frank  was  leaning  forward  in  his  chair.  His  great  hands 
were  clasped,  and  hung  down  between  his  parted  knees,  upon 
which  his  elbows  rested.  The  earnest  light  of  his  eyes  was 
shining  with  a  deep  fire,  and  Phyllis,  watching  him,  yearned 
to  fling  her  arms  about  him,  and  tell  him  something  of  the 
love  and  sympathy  running  such  riot  in  her  heart. 

Alexander  Hendrie  had  turned  toward  his  desk.  A  paper 
knife  was  in  his  right  hand,  and  its  ivory  blade  was 
gently  tapping  the  pad  of  blotting-paper  spread  out  be- 
fore him. 

He  spoke  at  last,  and  his  manner  was  quite  unusual.  Ordi- 
narily he  would  have  attacked  the  threat  against  himself  in  a 
sharp,  brusque  way.  But  somehow  Frank's  presence  had  a  dis- 
tinctly softening  effect  upon  him. 

"It's  not  easy,  is  it,  boy?"  he  said,  glancing  round  with  a 
half-smile. 


392  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Easy?  But  it — means  murder.  Murder  of  those  nig- 
gers." 

The  thought  revolted  the  man.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Hendrie  had  missed  the  appalling  nature  of  the  situation. 

"Yes.  It  looks  like  it,"  said  Hendrie,  still  almost  in- 
differently. "But  I  think  we  can  save  that.  The  moment 
Angus  returns  the  niggers  can  be  scattered.  Angus  will  be 
back  soon — to-night." 

"To-night?     But  we  must  act — now." 

"Yes."  Hendrie  agreed.  Then  he  smiled  confidently. 
"But  there's  more  time  than  you  think,  boy.  I  know  men. 
These  boys  won't  start  shooting  till  they've  worked  them- 
selves up  to  it.  They'll  likely  work  'emselves  up  by  firing 
my  crop." 

Frank  started  incredulously. 

"You — you  will  let  them?"  he  gasped. 

Phyllis  was  watching  the  millionaire.     He  shrugged. 

"It'll  help  to  manure  the  soil — for  next  year,"  he  said 
indifferently. 

"But — but — the  loss!"  Frank's  protest  came  in  an  awed 
whisper. 

Hendrie  smiled. 

"That's  up  to  me,"  he  said  enigmatically.  Then  he  faced 
round,  and  fixed  Frank  with  his  steady  eyes.  "See  here, 
listen.  You  don't  just  reckon  all  this  means  to  me — your 
coming  and  telling  me  this,  and  that  other — that  you've  quit 
Austin  Leyburn,"  he  said.  "It's  put  something  into  me. 
I  can't  just  explain — now.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  of  other 
things.  There's  things  in  my  mind  just  now  that  make 
matters  like  the  burning  of  my  crop,  yes,  and  even  the  shoot- 
ing up  of  niggers  seem  kind  of  small.  Don't  think  I'm 
standing  for  a  racket  like  that.  No,  sir.  We'll  see  those 
black  devils  right,  or However,  it's  about  this  Ley- 
burn.  Guess  you're  right.  He's  got  a  grievance,  and  it's 
so  big  it's  got  to  come  to  a  burst  up  between  us.  One  of 
us'll  have  to  get  right  down  and  out."  He  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  his  manner  became  thoughtful.  "Guess  it'll 
have  to  be  Leyburn,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "Yes,  there's 
work  for  me  yet."  Suddenly  he  looked  up  with  a  question 
in  his  eyes.  "Say,  boy,  you  don't  owe  me  a  hell  of  a  lot. 
And  yet  you  come  to  me  with — all  this  ?"  He  gazed  thought- 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

fully,  studying  the  strong,  earnest  young  face  before  him. 

"I  told  you  I  hadn't  thought  of  coming  until "  Frank 

broke  off  as  Phyllis  completed  the  explanation. 

"I  persuaded  him,  Mr.  Hendrie.     You  see " 

"I  guessed  that."  Hendrie  nodded.  Then  he  smiled. 
"Guess  it's  generally  a  woman  fixes  things  easy  for  men- 
folk, when  the  road's  rough." 

Then  quite  suddenly  he  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  his 
great  hands  gripping  its  arms  with  enormous  force. 

"Say,  you  two,"  he  cried,  a  sudden  fierce  light  shining  in 
his  eyes,  "we're  wasting  precious  minutes.  You,  boy,  you've 
come  to  me  with  talk  of  this  crime  to  be  committed.  Guess 
your  heart's  just  full  of  it.  But  I've  no  room  for  it  now. 
I'm  just  full  to  the  brim  of  another  crime  that  your  man 
Leyburn's  committed.  He  can  burn  my  crop;  he  can  shoot 
down  every  nigger  in  the  country  for  all  I  care,  while  this 
other  thing  is  threatening.  Say,  there's  no  nigger  or  white 
man  I'd  raise  a  hand  to  help  if  it's  at  the  expense  of  one 
moment  I  need  to  stop  the  completion  of  that  other  crime. 
Boy,  boy,  I  don't  care  if  the  roof  of  this  world  falls  in  and 
crushes  every  living  soul,  so  long  as  Monica  is  saved.  She, 
and  she  alone,  is  my  one  thought,  and  I  tell  you  right  here 
that  if  she  dies — she  will  not  die  alone.  Oh,  don't  think  I 
am  mad,"  he  cried,  as  Frank  stared  in  alarm  at  the  pas- 
sionate, working  face.  "I  am  sane — sane  as  you  are.  Now 
answer  me,  answer  me  as  you  love  your  God,  as  you  love 
the  woman  who  cared  for  you  from  your  childhood.  Why 
are  you  here?  I  want  the  blank  truth.  You  have  no  love 
for  me,  and  that  you've  cut  Leyburn  out  of  your  life  is 
insufficient  reason.  Why — why  are  you  here?" 

He  gazed  into  the  boy's  face  as  though  he  would  compel 
him.  Phyllis  waited  without  a  word. 

Frank  needed  little  consideration.  His  reply  came 
promptly,  and  full  of  sincerity. 

"I  came  to  see  if  I  could  help  her  in  any  way,"  he  said. 
You're  right.  I  should  not  have  come  for  those  other  mat- 
ters. Phyllis  could  have  warned  you.  I  am  not  here  be- 
cause of  you.  I  am  here  because  I — I  helped  to  make  that 
railroad  strike,  and  I  love  my — I  love  Mrs.  Hendrie.  I  said 
you  could  count  on  me  for — anything,  and  I  meant  it.  I'd 
willingly  sacrifice  everything,  even  my  life,  for  Monica." 


394  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Hendrie  suddenly  released  his  hold  upon  the  arms  of  his 
chair  and  sat  back.  His  eyes  were  smiling,  and,  just  for  a 
moment,  a  wave  of  great  peace  swept  over  his  stormy  heart. 

"I'm  glad,  boy,"  he  said  simply.  "Monica  is  lying  up- 
stairs surrounded  by  everything  the  world  can  give  her 
but  the  help  which  alone  can  save  her  life.  You  owe  her 
much,  but  you  owe  her  nothing  compared  with  my  debts 
to  her.  Now  she  is  in  need  of  the  payment  of  every  out- 
standing debt,  and  it  is  up  to  us.  How  can  we  bring  Pro- 
fessor Hinkling  from  Winnipeg?  That  is  the  question  that 
is  now  filling  my  heart  and  brain.  When  we  have  solved  it, 
when  that  help  is  brought  to  her,  then  some  of  our  debts 
will  have  been  paid.  How?  How?  How  can  this  be  done? 
How  can  this  man  Leyburn  be  bested.  How?" 

The  man's  words  came  hotly.  He  was  not  asking  his  ques- 
tions of  the  others.  He  was  simply  reiterating  the  straining 
thought  in  his  mind.  Phyllis  understood  this,  but  Frank 
accepted  the  question  as  addressed  to  himself.  His  mind 
was  not  subtle.  His  simplicity  at  times  was  almost  child- 
like. His  prompt  answer  had  something  of  that  nature  in  it 
now. 

"Why,  the  railroad  is  the  only  way,"  he  said. 

Hendrie  threw  up  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  irritation. 

"The  strike,  man!  The  strike!"  he  cried.  "There's  not 
a  passenger  can  travel.  If  it  were  attempted  the  permanent 
way  would  be  torn  up  by  Leyburn's  orders.  The  railroad 
company  would  never  risk  the  attempt. 

Frank's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Well?"  he  cried.  "That's  all  right.  If  he  can  order 
the  track  torn  up,  he  can  order  a  train  through — or  order 
the  strikers  to  let  a  train  through." 

The  millionaire's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  other's  ingenuous 
face.  He  was  exasperated  at  what  he  considered  his  dis- 
play of  almost  imbecile  childishness. 

"But  I  tell  you  he  would  do  anything  to  hurt  or  ruin 
me,"  he  cried,  rapidly  losing  all  patience. 

The  sight  of  his  evident  impatience  had  a  marked  effect 
upon  Frank.  Phyllis,  watching  both  men,  saw  her  lover's 
eyes  suddenly  harden.  His  rather  large  mouth,  so  like  the 
millionaire's,  suddenly  shut  tight,  and  the  movement  was 
accompanied  by  a  fierce  setting  of  the  jaws.  A  wave  of 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE  395 

anxiety  for  what  was  coming  swept  over  her.  Then  came 
Frank's  voice,  as  fierce  and  harsh  as  ever  she  had  heard  in 
Alexander  Hendrie. 

"If  this  man  Hinkling's  coming  means  saving  Mrs.  Hen- 
drie's  life,  and  Leyburn  has  power  to  let  him  through  in 
time,  and  refuses  it,  I'll  kill  him,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  he  cried, 
in  a  deep,  stern  voice.  "I'll  choke  the  rotten  life  out  of 
him  with  these  two  hands,"  he  added,  in  a  sudden  frenzy, 
reaching  out  toward  the  other  with  his  fists  clenching,  as 
though  they  were  grasping  the  labor  leader's  throat. 

Hendrie's  eyes  lit  as  he  heard  the  other's  words  and  saw 
the  murderously  inspired  action.  The  man  meant  it.  He 
recognized  the  fierce  spirit  which  underlay  a  nature  of 
kindliness  and  gentle  feeling,  and,  curiously  enough,  it 
warmed  him,  as  the  gentler  side  of  the  man  had  left  him 
untouched. 

He  was  about  to  reply  when  quite  suddenly  Phyllis  cried 
out. 

"I  see.  I  see,"  she  said.  "Frank's  right,  Mr.  Hendrie. 
Leyburn  has  the  power,  and,  if  he  will  not  use  it,  he  must 
be  made  to " 

But  before  she  could  proceed  further  the  door  was  un- 
ceremoniously flung  open,  and  Angus  Moraine,  lean,  vulture- 
like,  hurried  in. 

"It's  no  good,  Mr. Oh,  beg  pardon.  I  didn't  just 

know —  — "  He  paused,  as  though  about  to  withdraw  at 
the  sight  of  Frank  and  Phyllis.  "Guess  I'll  come  along 
later,"  he  said.  "There's  a  fire  way  out  to  the  west.  I  saw 
it  as  I  came  along.  Looks  like  the  prairie.  I'll  just  get 
around.  You  won't  need  the  automobile.  It'll  take  me 
quicker." 

Phyllis  started. 

"Fire?"  she  demanded,  in  sudden  alarm. 

"Out  west?"  cried  Frank,  rising  abruptly  from  his  seat. 

Angus  nodded. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said.     "Guess  it's  just  the  prairie." 

Suddenly  the  millionaire  laughed  aloud. 

"Prairie?"  he  cried.  "Say,  Angus,  my  boy,  that's  my 
crop.  They've  fired  the  crop.  They're  going  to  break  me. 
Austin  Leyburn  and  his  scallywags.  They're  going  to 
smash  me  by  burning  my  crop,  and  then  they're  going  to 


396  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

shoot  down  every  nigger  on  the  place  while  they  let  my 
wife  die  in  her  bed  for  want  of  a  surgeon's  aid.  Do  you  get 
that  all?  Do  you?  That's  Leyburn.  Austin  Leyburn,  who 
came  here  days  ago  and  promised  he'd  smash  me  for  things 
done  way  back  on  the  old  Yukon  trail.  Hey!  Stop  right 
here  and  listen.  I've  got  it  now,  and  this  boy,  here,  and 
this  child,  too,  have  shown  me  the  way.  There's  no  train 
to  go  through,  eh?  That's  what  they've  told  you  in  Cal- 
ford.  A  million  dollars  won't  take  one  through.  Well,  a 
train's  going  through,  and  for  a  deal  less  than  a  million. 
The  railroaders  need  Leyburn's  order.  Leyburn's  order!" 
He  laughed  in  a  wild  sort  of  sarcasm.  "Well,  by  God,  he 
shall  give  it!  This  boy  and  girl  are  on.  It  don't  need  any 
telling.  You  are  on,  my  dour  Scot — I  know  you.  We'll  let 
him  burn  the  crop,  let  him  shoot  up  the  niggers,  I  don't 
care  a  curse.  He's  going  to  send  that  train  through.  Sit 
right  down  and  I'll  tell  you  'bout  it." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  RAID 

AUSTIN  LEYBURN  was  well  enough  satisfied.  More  than 
that,  he  felt  he  had  earned  these  moments  of  satisfaction. 

He  had  taken  a  big  chance  in  rushing  down  in  his  automo- 
bile from  Calford  to  Evert  on  at  the  moment  when  the  newly 
started  strike  of  the  railroad  required  his  whole  attention, 
and  the  sympathies  of  other  forms  of  transport  required  to 
be  brought  into  line.  So  many  things  might  go  wrong  with 
his  greater  plans,  and  though  his  working  staff  and  fellow- 
leaders  were  men  of  capacity,  and  fully  able  to  deal  with 
affairs,  he  knew  that,  in  all  emergency,  his  was  the  organiz- 
ing brain,  his  was  the  final  word. 

But  the  risk  had  been  worth  while.  Anything  was  worth 
while  that  gave  him  opportunity  of  satisfying  something  of 
his  almost  lifelong  hatred  of  Alexander  Hendrie.  This  new 
toy  of  his,  this  organization  of  agricultural  labor,  had  as- 
sumed proportions  far  greater  in  his  mind  than  any  of  his 
other  interests,  and  the  reason  of  it  lay  in  the  fact  that  ,-it 
last,  after  years  of  waiting,  it  had  brought  him  into  con- 
tact with  the  man,  Leo.  Better  still,  Leo,  the  Leo  he  had 


A    RAID  397 

at  last  found  out,  was  worth  while.  He  was  a  great  man, 
a  man  head  and  shoulders  above  all  his  fellows  in  the  world's 
affairs,  and  his  ultimate  fall  would  be  something  worth  while 
having  brought  about. 

His  delight  was  manifest  as  he  rode  along  the  trail  in 
the  direction  of  Everton.  His  good  humor  left  his  narrow 
eyes  smiling  his  satisfied  thought.  His  men  had  worked  well ; 
and  he — well,  he  had  never  worked  harder,  or  with  a  more 
satisfactory  result.  These  men  of  the  soil  were  far  easier 
to  influence  than  town-bred  workers.  It  was  natural — as 
they  were.  Yes,  for  once  in  his  life  he  felt  grateful  to  those 
who  had  served  him.  The  men  who  had  been  sent  ahead 
to  agitate  had  never  worked  with  such  successful  results. 
He  would  remember  them,  and  mark  them  out  for  promotion. 

Then  there  was  young  Frank  Smith.  He  smiled  more 
broadly  down  at  his  horse's  ears.  Leo's  son — working  for 
his  father's  downfall.  It  was  a  pretty  touch,  and  the  humor 
of  it  tickled  him.  Oh,  Leo  should  know  of  it — later  on, 
when  the  work  was  completed. 

Frank.  He  wondered  where  he  was  just  now.  The  smile 
died  out  of  his  eyes.  He  had  purposely  kept  his  meeting 
secret.  He  had  had  no  desire  that  the  boy  should  witness 
it.  He  had  a  perfect  estimate  of  the  youngster's  prejudices 
and  feelings  which  might  have  militated  against  his,  Ley- 
burn's,  success  had  Frank  listened  to  his  urging  of  those 
drink-sodden  creatures  to  violence.  But  where  was  he?  He 
had  received  no  word  from  the  boy  for  nearly  a  week.  He 
made  a  mental  note  to  set  inquiries  afoot — that  is,  if  no 
word  were  awaiting  him  on  his  return  to  Calford. 

At  that  moment  his  horse,  an  old  roadster,  hired  at  the 
livery  barn  in  Everton,  threw  up  its  head  and  snuffed  at 
the  light,  southern  breeze.  Leyburn  glanced  up  expectantly 
and  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  in  which  his  uneasy 
horse  was  staring.  In  an  instant  Frank  was  forgotten,  and 
his  whole  attention  became  fixed  upon  what  he  beheld.  He 
drew  rein  sharply,  and  the  animal  stood  fidgeting  and  fret- 
ful. 

Away  to  the  southwest  behind  him  a  ruddy  glow  shone 
upon  the  night  sky.  It  was  the  direction  whence  the  night 
breeze  sprang,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  at  the  point  where 
he  had  held  his  meeting.  He  rubbed  his  hands  gleefully 


398  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

and  chuckled.  While  he  watched  the  glow  spread  along  the 
southern  horizon,  and  as  it  spread  so  the  stars  in  the  sky 
above  were  obscured,  and  he  knew  that  a  great  fog  of  smoke 
had  intervened  to  hide  them. 

His  horse  continued  to  fidget,  and  again  and  again  its 
gushing  nostrils  strove  to  expel  the  taint  of  smoke,  now 
plainly  to  be  noticed  in  the  fresh  air  of  the  plains. 

But  the  man  remained  absorbed.  Farther  and  farther 
along  the  horizon  lit,  and  now,  where  before  only  a  glowing 
reflection  had  been,  a  sharp  belt  of  flame  showed  up,  reveal- 
ing to  his  satisfied  eyes  the  great  billows  of  smoke  rolling 
along  and  upwards,  borne  upon  the  bosom  of  the  summer 
breeze. 

He  knew  that  his  work  was  complete.  He  knew  that  those 
whom  he  had  left  behind  to  see  that  his  desires  were  carried 
out  had  done  so  promptly  and  satisfactorily.  He  knew  that 
now  no  human  hand  could  save  the  miles  of  crop  belonging 
to  Alexander  Hendrie.  He  knew  that,  by  morning,  a  charred, 
black  debris  would  be  all  that  remained  of  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars  worth  of  grain,  and  that  Leo,  the  great 
Leo,  would  be  just  so  much  the  poorer. 

He  gave  his  restive  horse  its  head,  and  the  eager  beast 
plunged  forward  down  the  trail.  It  was  thankful,  desper- 
ately thankful,  for  the  chance  of  getting  away  from  the 
hateful,  fascinating  sight. 

Leyburn's  eyes  remained  turned  upon  the  wonderful  spec- 
tacle of  the  fiercely  burning  grain.  The  fire  was  sweeping 
onward  with  a  terrific  rush,  and  a  dull  roar  reached  him  as 
it  licked  up  the  rustling  heads  of  wheat  in  a  parallel  to  the 
road  he  was  traveling.  Its  pace  was  miraculous,  and  man 
and  beast  were  soon  left  far  behind  in  the  race.  Never  had 
this  man  witnessed  such  a  wonderful  scene,  and  something 
of  its  awe  filled  his  heart. 

He  had  no  misgivings,  no  qualms  of  conscience.  It  was 
his  work,  this  wanton  destruction,  and  he  gloried  in  it.  The 
weight  of  his  hand  had  fallen,  and  he  knew  that  Alexander 
Hendrie,  while  powerless  to  help  himself,  would  understand 
who  had  directed  the  blow. 

The  fire  grew  with  lightning  rapidity,  and  even  here  on 
this  trail,  well  away  from  the  danger  zone,  the  heat  left  his 
horse  in  a  lather  of  sweat.  The  smoke,  too,  was  choking, 


A    RAID  399 

but  the  discomfort  of  it  was  no  discomfort  to  him  at  all, 
only  to  his  horse,  who  had  no  desire  for  a  cruel  vengeance 
in  its  submissive  heart. 

He  sped  on  rapidly.  Soon  the  trail  turned  away  north- 
ward, and  the  fire  fell  lower  and  lower  upon  the  horizon, 
and  the  heated  night  air  cooled  and  sweetened.  But  the 
man  half  regretted  he  was  no  longer  in  full  view  of  the  result 
of  his  mischief.  Still  he  reveled  in  the  thought  of  what 
Hendrie's  feelings  must  be  just  now.  It  gave  him  the  great- 
est delight  to  picture  the  millionaire  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  his  palatial  home  while  a  vast  slice  of  his  wealth  was 
vanishing  in  smoke  before  his  eyes. 

An  hour  later  he  approached  the  bluffs  which  surrounded 
Everton.  He  had  passed  no  one  on  the  trail.  As  he  drew 
near  his  destination  he  was  still  further  astonished  to  find 
no  sign  of  excitement  stirring.  He  looked  back.  The  sky 
was  lit  for  miles  around,  yet  Everton  and  its  surroundings 
seemed  all  undisturbed.  There  was  just  a  slight  feeling  of 
pique  in  him  as  he  realized  how  little  popular  stir  his  doings 
had  caused,  and  this  lack  of  interest  somehow  lessened  his 
satisfaction. 

The  bluff  swallowed  him  up,  and  he  dug  his  heels  viciously 
into  his  horse's  flanks. 

The  next  moment  he  became  aware  of  a  horseman  riding 
toward  him.  That  was  better.  Everton  was  awake  after 
all.  Doubtless  only  the  silence  of  the  bluffs  gave  the  little 
town  its  appearance  of  indifference  to  the  epoch-making 
achievements  of  his  genius. 

The  horseman  rounded  a  bend  in  the  trail  just  ahead  of 
him.  He  drew  up  sharply  as  he  came  abreast. 

"Say,"  the  man  cried,  without  ceremony,  "guess  you  don't 
just  happen  to  be  Austin  Leyburn?" 

Leyburn  thought  quickly  before  replying. 

"You  looking  for  him?"  he  inquired  evasively. 

"What  in  hell  do  you  s'pose  I'm  doin'?"  retorted  the 
other,  with  a  sort  of  explosion. 

"Shouting  a  deal,"  observed  Leyburn  calmly. 

"Guess  you'd  shout  too,  if  you  was  chased  this  time  o* 
night  rushin'  around  hunting  a  guy  called  Leyburn,  when 
there's  a  hell  of  a  big  fire  eatin'  up  that  doggone  skunk 
Hendrie's  wheat." 


400  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Fire?" 

Leyburn  appeared  surprised. 

"That's  what  I  said.  Say,  you  ain't  deef  an'  blind,  or 
what's  ailing  yer?  You  come  along  that  way.  Gee,  I'd 
sure  guess  that  lousy  dollar  king's  'bout  hatin'  hisself  right 
now.  It's  his  boys.  They're  on  strike.  More  power  to 
'em,  sez  I.  If  I'd  anything  in  their  bizness  I'd  burn  his  house, 
too." 

"You  a  farm  hand?"  inquired  Leyburn  amusedly. 

"Was.  I  worked  for  Hendrie  till  his  dirty  Scotch  manager 
fired  me.  Now  I'm  chasin'  chores  around  the  hotel,  back 
there.  Well,  guess  I  got  to  find  this  guy  'fore  I  make  my 
blankets  this  night.  I'll  get  on — seein'  you  haven't  seen  him 
around." 

But  Leyburn  promptly  detained  him. 

"I'm  your  man,"  he  said  quietly.     "What  is  it?" 

"You're  Leyburn  ?"  The  man's  eyes  twinkled  in  the  dark- 
ness as  he  fumbled  in  his  dirty  waistcoat  pocket.  "I'm  real 
glad,"  he  exclaimed.  "Guess  I'll  get  a  peek  at  Hendrie's 
bonfire  after  all.  Here — it  come  over  the  'phone  for  you  an 
hour  back.  It's  from  Calford.  The  boss  wrote  it  down  so  I 
wouldn't  forget.  You  got  to  chase  back  to  Calford  right 
away.  Something  important.  Boss  said  they  wouldn't  say 
wot,  seein'  it  wasn't  you  speakin',  but  you  wasn't  to  lose  a 
minit — 'cep  you  wanted  one  hell  of  a  bust-up  of  trouble. 
Here  it  is."  He  drew  out  a  piece  of  paper  tightly  folded. 

Leyburn  took  the  paper. 

"That  what  this  paper  says?"  he  asked. 

"Wai,  not  just  them  words,  but  you  got  to  get  back  right 
away.  Guess  I'll  get  on  an'  see  that  fire  now." 

The  choreman  picked  up  his  reins  and  rammed  his  heels 
into  his  horse's  flanks. 

"So  long,"  he  called  out,  as  his  horse  dashed  forward  in 
the  direction  Leyburn  had  come. 

Leyburn  did  not  trouble  to  reply.  He  was  already  urging 
his  horse  forward  so  as  to  reach  the  hotel  with  as  little  delay 
as  possible. 

Trouble  in  Calford.  He  had  risked  it  by  making  his  visit 
to  Everton.  It  was  always  the  way.  He  might  have  known. 
What  fool  trick  had  they  been  up  to  in  his  absence?  Was 
there  ever  such  a  pack  of  imbeciles?  Not  one  fit  to  be 


A    RAID  401 

trusted  for  a  second.    He  slashed  his  horse's  sides  with  vicious 
heels  in  his  haste  to  obey  the  summons. 

The  level  prairie  trail  lay  like  a  ribbon  outstretched  in 
front  of  the  speeding  machine,  as  the  searchlight  at  the 
head  of  the  car  threw  out  its  great  shaft  of  hard,  cold 
light. 

The  man  at  the  wheel  sat  well  forward.  His  eyes  were 
straining  behind  his  glasses,  straining  to  discover  in  time 
those  treacherous  unevennesses  so  frequently  found  in  the 
hollows  of  an  unmade  road.  The  speed  was  terrific,  and 
even  Austin  Leyburn,  who  sat  beside  him,  with  all  his  confi- 
dence in  his  man,  was  sitting  up,  too,  lending  his  watchful 
eyes  to  the  task. 

The  machine  purred  musically  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
The  engine  was  firing  with  perfect  precision,  and  the  occu- 
pants of  the  car  were  left  free  to  give  their  whole  attention 
to  the  surface  of  the  road.  It  was  needed,  too.  The  danger 
of  their  speed  in  the  darkness  was  great,  even  to  the  most 
experienced  chauffeur. 

Austin  Leyburn  had  been  forced  to  obey  his  summons. 
On  arrival  at  the  Russell  Hotel  he  had  interviewed  Lionel 
K.  Sharpe,  and  verified  the  telephone  message.  Sharpe  had 
told  him  the  same  as  he  had  written  down  on  paper,  and 
assured  him  of  the  urgency  with  which  the  message  had 
been  sent. 

But  even  this  had  not  been  sufficient  for  the  shrewd  labor 
leader.  Nothing  would  satisfy  him  but  to  ring  up  Calford 
himself.  He  was  promptly  afforded  every  facility.  Nor 
was  it  until  he  had  spent  half  an  hour  in  vain  ringing  that 
he  discovered  that  the  machine  had  taken  into  its  wayward, 
wooden  head  to  get  out  of  order.  In  consequence  he  was 
left  with  no  alternative  but  to  accept  the  message  as  it  stood, 
and  make  the  journey  to  Calford  with  all  possible  speed. 

His  mind  traveled  swiftly  over  the  possibilities  suggested 
by  the  message.  But  each  and  every  suggestion  that  came 
to  him  left  him  dissatisfied.  He  could  think  of  no  proba- 
bility that  demanded  his  presence  at  headquarters  before 
the  morning,  at  his  usual  hour,  the  time  his  fellow-workers 
were  aware  he  intended  to  return. 

He  became  annoyed.    The  more  he  considered  the  matter 
27 


402  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  more  his  annoyance  grew.  Yet  he  could  not  help  a  feel- 
ing of  uneasiness,  too.  All  his  satisfaction  of  a  short  while 
ago  had  passed.  It  was  one  thing  to  achieve  a  long- cherished 
revenge ;  but,  to  him,  it  was  quite  another  if  its  achievement 
meant  the  upsetting  of  his  entire  life's  work.  These  thoughts 
came  to  him  and  would  not  be  denied,  in  spite  of  his  repeated 
reassurance  that  it  was  all  impossible,  and  that  the  message 
must  have  been  the  result  of  some  absurd  and  sudden  panic 
on  the  part  of  some  blundering  fool. 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  and  his  own  at- 
tention was  consequently  distracted  from  the  road,  when  a 
whistling  sound  escaped  the  man  beside  him.  It  was  like  a 
sharp  intake  of  breath,  caused  by  sudden  alarm.  Leyburn 
turned  toward  him,  and  as  he  did  so  the  car  jolted  under 
the  sharp  application  of  brakes,  while  behind  them  a  stream 
of  sparks  lit  their  wake. 

"What  is  it"  he  demanded,  peering  out  ahead.  "Gee !"  he 
cried  in  alarm,  an  instant  later.  "Quick,  skirt  it !" 

But  the  car  jerked  to  a  standstill  in  a  manner  that  must 
nearly  have  ripped  the  tires  off  the  wheels,  and  Leyburn 
found  himself  with  his  hands  gripping  the  dashboard  below 
the  glass  wind-screen,  which  came  into  sharp  contact  with 
his  face. 

"Gee!  That  was  a  narrow  shave,"  cried  the  chauffeur, 
with  a  gasp  of  relief. 

"What  the  devil —  — !"  cried  Leyburn,  struggling  back 
to  his  seat,  while  the  engine  roared  free,  vibrating  the  whole 
car  violently,  as  if  in  angry  protest. 

But  the  driver  had  jumped  to  the  ground,  and  stood  con- 
templating a  huge  tangle  of  barbed  wire  spreading  right 
across  the  trail,  less  than  a  dozen  yards  beyond  the  front 
wheels. 

Leyburn  climbed  down  and  followed  him.  There  were  no 
bluffs,  there  were  no  fields  with  barbed  wire  fencing  any- 
where in  sight.  It  was  plain  enough,  even  in  the  darkness, 
that  they  were  surrounded  on  either  hand  by  nothing  but 
bare,  open  prairie.  He  approached  the  tangled  mass,  and 
his  man  pointed  at  it. 

"We  must  clear  it,"  he  said.  "It's  these  cursed  farmers. 
They're  so  darned  careless —  Say,  if  we'd  gone  headlong 
into  that,  it  would  have  torn  our  running  gear  right  out. 


A    RAID  403 

Look  at  that."  He  stooped  and  fingered  the  great  strands 
of  wire. 

Leyburn  bent  down.     His  suspicions  were  fully  aroused. 

"Say,"  he  cried.     "This  didn't  get  here  by " 

"Hands  up!" 

The  cry  came  sharply  from  directly  behind  the  labor 
leader,  and  its  threat  was  unmistakable. 

Leyburn  turned  at  the  hoarse  demand.  The  chauffeur 
stood  up.  Both  found  themselves  looking  into  the  muzzles  of 
revolvers.  Two  masked  men  stood  confronting  them,  while 
a  third  was  waiting  close  by. 

The  chauffeur  promptly  complied  with  the  order.  He 
felt  that  he  had  nothing  to  gain  by  refusing.  He  remem- 
bered in  time  that  he  had  only  a  few  dollars  in  cash  on  him, 
and  no  valuables. 

Leyburn  was  less  quick  to  respond.  Light  had  broken 
in  upon  his  quick  brain,  and  his  thoughts  had  gone  back  to 
the  telephone  message. 

Another  sharp  order  brought  his  wandering  attention 
back  to  the  exigencies  of  the  moment,  and  his  hands  were 
slowly  raised  above  his  head. 

Then  the  third  man  became  active.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  and  in  absolute  silence,  he  ran  his  hands  down 
the  labor  leader's  pockets.  Then  he  produced  a  rope,  and 
taking  hold  of  his  arms  forced  them  to  his  sides,  finally 
securing  them  behind  his  back.  Once  his  man  was  completely 
trussed  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  other,  treating  him  to 
similar  attentions. 

The  whole  thing  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments.  Ley- 
burn,  impotently  raging,  was  left  quite  helpless.  So  sudden 
and  startling  had  been  the  attack,  so  unsuspected,  that  its 
success  was  complete;  and  even  protest  became  impossible 
before  the  threat  of  his  assailants'  weapons. 

Now  more  than  ever  he  knew  he  had  been  trapped  by  the 
telephone  message.  But  why,  and  by  whom?  Robbery? 
It  was  absurd.  The  money  he  had  on  him  would  not  pay 
these  men  for  their  trouble  and  risk. 

No,  it  was  not  robbery.  Then  he  remembered  Hendrie 
and  the  firing  of  his  crop.  In  a  moment  he  became  anxious, 
and  narrowly  scrutinized  the  figures  of  his  assailants.  Two 
of  them  were  large,  and  the  third  was  a  lean  creature,  tall 


404  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

enough,  but  small  beside  the  other  two.  Each  man's  face  was 
completely  covered  by  a  long  black  mask.  He  could  not 
tell  even  if  they  were  bearded. 

His  suspicions  once  aroused,  however,  he  quickly  made  up 
his  mind  that  this  was  the  work  of  his  arch-enemy,  and  he 
knew  that,  for  the  time,  at  least,  he  stood  at  his  mercy. 

Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder.  He  was 
turned  about.  Then  he  was  thrust  forward. 

"Walk,"  commanded  the  man  who  had  first  spoken.  The 
next  moment  he  found  himself  moving  out  on  to  the  prairie. 

In  the  meantime  the  chauffeur  was  hustled  back  to  the 
automobile.  His  captor  secured  him  in  the  front  seat,  while 
the  third  man  dragged  the  barbed  wire  clear  of  the  road. 
Then  the  other  took  his  place  at  the  wheel,  and  the  car 
rolled  away. 

The  third  man  looked  after  it.  Then  he  finally  turned 
off  the  trail  and  followed  Leyburn  and  his  captor.  By  the 
time  he  reached  them,  both  men  were  in  the  saddle,  waiting. 
Two  other  horses  stood  by.  He  sprang  into  the  saddle  of 
one  and  led  the  other,  and  the  whole  party  set  off  across  the 
prairie. 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL 

"PHEW!" 

Hendrie  threw  off  the  long  cloth  mask  he  had  been  wear- 
ing. It  dropped  into  the  wastepaper  basket  beside  the  desk. 
Angus  Moraine  followed  his  example. 

In  the  center  of  the  room,  sitting  on  a  high-legged  arm- 
chair, his  arms  still  bound,  Austin  Leyburn  silently  watched 
his  captors'  movements. 

They  were  in  the  library  at  Deep  Willows. 

Long  before  their  arrival  Leyburn  had  become  aware  of 
his  captors'  identity.  The  identity  of  the  third  man,  who 
was  no  longer  with  them,  puzzled  him — was  still  puzzling 
him.  The  journey  to  Deep  Willows  had  been  made  with 
the  passing  of  scarcely  a  single  word.  Once  the  captive 
attempted  to  break  the  silence,  but  a  swift  threat  had  left 
him  no  alternative. 

Leyburn  was  no  physical   coward.     But  he  knew  men; 


HIS    BACK    TO    THE    WALL  405 

and  his  understanding  of  them  left  him  convinced  that  Leo, 
as  he  preferred  to  think  of  him,  was  utterly  reckless  when 
goaded  as  he  had  been  goaded  by  the  total  loss  of  his  crop. 
Therefore  he  waited,  watchful  and  alert,  ready  to  fight  the 
moment  any  reasonable  opportunity  offered,  or  to  submit, 
according  to  circumstances. 

The  millionaire's  manner  had  lost  something  of  its  se- 
verity. For  the  moment  he  felt  he  was  back  in  the  old  fighting 
days  when  lawlessness  had  no  terrors  for  his  impulsive 
heart.  It  felt  good  to  have  his  wits  pitted  against  his  old 
associate  with  all  law  and  order  thrust  into  the  background. 
Besides,  he  knew  that  something  far  more  precious  than  his 
own  life  was  dependent  upon  the  result  of  this  night's  work. 

He  switched  on  additional  light  and  then  moved  over  to 
the  desk,  against  which  he  propped  himself. 

"Hot.  Hot  as  hell,  under  those  things,  Tug,  my  boy," 
he  said,  while  Angus  unostentatiously  seated  himself  in  a 
chair  somewhat  behind  the  prisoner.  "Still,  I  guess  they 
were  necessary.  I  wouldn't  have  had  your  man  recognize 
us.  You  didn't  matter.  He  did.  You  are  only  one.  Say, 
he's  a  smart  lad — your  chauffeur.  If  he  hadn't  been  you'd 
both  likely  have  been  on  the  way  to  glory  now,  traveling 
on  a  barbed  wire.  You  were  moving  some.  Still,  I  had  to 
risk  all  that.  I  needed  you  out  in  the  open,  with  no  one 
around,  and  I  hadn't  time  to  worry  out  a  better  plan.  You 
see,  I  wanted  you — without  any  halo.  Guess  I'll  have  to 
hand  your  boy  a  wad — later.  He  did  me  a  right  good  turn 
saving  your  neck." 

Ley  burn  smarted  under  the  jibing  manner.  He  strove 
to  twist  himself  into  a  position  of  ease,  which  his  bound 
arms  made  almost  impossible.  He  wanted  to  answer.  He 
wanted  to  fling  back  some  stinging  retort,  but  prudence 
kept  him  silent. 

Hendrie  watched  his  endeavor  to  ease  his  position,  and 
signed  to  Angus. 

"Better  loose  him,"  he  said,  as  he  might  have  spoken  of 
some  dog.  "He's  harmless — anyway." 

Angus  obeyed.  And  Leyburn  could  no  longer  keep 
silence. 

"Maybe  he  didn't  do  you  so  good  a  turn  as  you  think," 
he  cried,  his  voice  husky  with  rage.  "But  you'll  pay  him 


406  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

all  right.  You'll  pay  me,  too,  for  this  night's  work.  It  was 
like  you — a  highway  robber." 

Angus  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  There  was  some 
meaning  in  Leyburn's  words  he  could  not  quite  follow. 

But  the  millionaire  seemed  undisturbed  by  them. 

"Yes,"  Hendrie  said,  reaching  round  to  the  cabinet  be- 
hind him  and  taking  a  cigar. 

He  bit  the  end  off,  and  Angus  noted  the  vicious  clip  of  his 
sharp,  white  teeth.  He  lit  the  cigar  deliberately,  and  eyed 
his  prisoner  through  the  smoke. 

"Yes,"  he  said  again,  "later  I'll  be  ready  to  pay  most 
anything.  Just  now  it's  you  who're  going  to  pay.  Guess 
you  ought  to  understand  that.  You've  known  me  with  my 
back  to  the  wall  before.  I'm  dangerous  with  my  back  to  the 
wall.  You  likely  know  that.  You  paid  before — guess  you're 
going  to  pay  now." 

Leyburn  stirred.  The  cold  ease  of  this  man's  manner 
troubled  him.  This  reference  to  his  doings  in  the  past — 
before  another — had  an  ominous  flavor.  Policy  kept  him 
silent,  though  he  was  longing  to  shout  another  furious  defi- 
ance at  him. 

"I'm  generally  ready  to  take  my  chances  'bout  things," 
Hendrie  went  on,  "but,"  he  added  with  a  contemptuous 
movement  of  the  hand,  "this  isn't  as  big  a  chance  as  no 
doubt  you  figure  it  is.  It  don't  amout  to  a  heap  taking 
forcible  possession  of  a  low-down  labor  man  who's  set  the 
boys  on  to  firing  a  million-dollar  crop.  Also  incited  them 
to  murder  a  lot  of  harmless  niggers." 

Leyburn's  eyes  grew  hot,  but  he  answered  in  a  tone  that 
matched  the  other's  for  contempt. 

"That  wouldn't  go  in  a  court  of  law,"  he  said.  "You've 
got  to  prove  it.  You'd  find  yourself  up  against  a  proposi- 
tion doing  it.  The  strikers  fired  that  crop  because  they 
were  drunk."  He  laughed;  but  his  mirth  was  little  better 
than  a  snarl." 

"Wouldn't  it?"  said  Hendrie,  removing  his  cigar  and  seri- 
ously contemplating  the  perfect  white  ash  at  its  tip.  "Maybe 
you're  right  though.  Guess  you  know  the  limits  you  can 
go  to.  Still,  you're  apt  to  be  overconfident.  Guess  you 
were  that  way  some  time  back.  You  remember.  You 
warned  me  you  intended  to  'smash'  me.  That  was  the  word. 


HIS    BACK    TO    THE    WALL  407 

It's  a  good  word  to  impress  folks  wlio'rc  carried  away  by 
words.  But  it's  too  showy  for  me.  Besides,  it's  a  fool  trick 
to  warn  folks  you're  going  to  hunt  'cm.  You  need  to  do 
the  smashing  first  and  warn  afterwards.  That's  my  way. 
In  your  case  that  warning  was  fatal.  It  left  me  time  to  get 
busy.  Oh,  I  got  busy  all  right.  Maybe  you  know  I  went 
East,  just  after.  I  s'pose  you  kept  track  of  me.  I  went 
East  for  two  reasons.  One  to  make  it  so  you  couldn't  hurt 
me  through  your  labor  machinery.  The  other  to — hunt 
you  up." 

He  paused  and  their  eyes  met.  A  quick,  furtive  inquiry 
was  in  Leyburn's.  In  Hendrie's  there  was  simply  a  deadly 
cold  light  as  he  nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  went  on.  "I  hunted  you  up  all  right. 
P'r'aps  you  don't  know  it — but  you  ought  to — my  work  is 
to  study  and  watch  the  money  market.  It  is  for  me  to  find 
out  who're  moving,  who're  manipulating.  It's  not  always 
easy.  So,  to  do  it  successfully,  and  to  keep  myself  just 
ahead  of  other  folks,  I  have  a  bureau  of  secret  information 
that  would  be  a  credit  to  New  York  Tammany  Hall.  Do 
you  follow  me?" 

Leyburn  abruptly  shifted  his  position. 

"I  don't,"  he  denied,  with  unnecessary  force. 

Hendrie  knocked  his  ash  on  to  the  Turkey  carpet. 

"I'll  make  it  plainer.  It  will  enlighten  Angus,  here,  as 
well.  When  you're  in  conspiracy  to  play  the  stock  market 
through  labor  strikes  which  you  control,  it's  best  not  to 
threaten  to  smash  one  of  the  biggest  operators  in  the  coun- 
try. If  you're  sensible,  and  finish  with  me  as  I  want  you  to 
finish,  these  things  don't  matter.  But  if  you're  foolish,  and 
headstrong,  there  are  a  heap  of  things  may  happen.  One  of 
them  is  the  prisoners'  dock  for  criminal  conspiracy  in  your 
labor  work.  Not  only  for  you,  but  for  the  other  'heads'  of 
your  movement." 

Leyburn  suddenly  burst  into  a  laugh.  It  was  forced.  It 
was  so  evidently  forced  that  it  drew  a  reluctant  smile  from 
the  watchful  Scot  behind  him,  and  a  contemptuous  smiling 
response  from  Hendrie,  himself. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  the  millionaire  observed  calmly.  "It 
would  be  funnier  still  if  your  union  members  heard  of  it. 
Gee,  they'd  be  tickled  to  death." 


408  THE    WAY   OF   THE    STRONG 

But  the  humor  suggested  by  Hendric  passed  his  prisoner 
by.  His  laugh  had  died  out,  and  his  angry  eyes  snapped. 

"You  didn't  bring  me  here  to  tell  me  this — this  fool  talk," 
he  cried,  striving  desperately  for  calmness. 

Hendrie  relit  his  cigar,  which  had  gone  out. 

"No  I  didn't,  Tug,  my  boy,"  he  said,  glancing  over  the 
flame  of  the  match  at  the  man's  furious  face.  "There  are 
other  things."  He  blew  the  light  out,  and  placed  the  dead 
match  carefully  in  an  ash  tray.  "Guess  you  don't  need  me 
to  preach  sense  to  a  man  like  you.  Still,  if  I'd  a  grievance 
against  a  man — and,"  he  smiled,  "I  allow  you  have  reason 
to  feel  unfriendly  toward  me — I  should  just  get  right  up 
on  my  hind  legs  and  hand  him  all  I  knew— dead  straight.  I 
wouldn't  worry  with  a  bum  organization  of  labor  to  do  it. 
It's  unwieldy,  it's  rarely  effective.  You  leave  me  free  to 
get  out  of  it,  to  protect  myself.  Say,  you  haven't  robbed  me 
of  a  thing  to-night.  All  you've  done  is  to  manure  the  soil, 
and  do  me  a  service  toward  next  year's  crop,  which  I  doubt, 
when  the  time  comes,  if  you'll  be  in  a  position  to  hurt." 

He  crossed  over  to  the  window  and  drew  the  curtains 
aside.  The  red  glow  of  the  still  burning  crop  was  shining  in 
every  direction.  The  window  looked  out  upon  a  land  of  fire, 
with  the  house,  an  oasis  in  the  center  of  it,  cut  off  by  wide 
"fire  breaks,"  which  left  it  beyond  all  danger. 

"Look,"  he  cried.  "It's  a  pretty  sight.  Fire  in  every 
direction.  But,  from  your  point  of  view,  wholly  unef- 
fective." 

The  curtains  fell  back  in  their  place,  and  the  millionaire 
returned  to  the  desk.  Leyburn  had  not  moved.  Like  an 
obstinate  child  he  had  refused  to  look  as  invited,  and  Angus's 
grim  face  displayed  his  appreciation  of  the  manner  in  which 
Hendrie  was,  in  his  own  phraseology,  "putting  him  through 
it." 

"Then  there's  those  niggers,"  the  millionaire  continued, 
as  soon  as  he  had  taken  up  his  position  at  the  desk  again. 
"You  told  the  boys  to  shoot  'em  up  to-night."  He  shook  his 
head  sadly.  "Quite  ridiculous.  Quite  impossible.  You 
should  have  thought  more — and  hated  less.  Angus  has 
paid  'em  off,  and  they're  quitting  right  now,  as  fast  as  panic 
can  chase  'em.  You  see,  there's  no  more  work  here  now  for 
black  or  white  for  six  months  to  come.  All  the  hands  are 


HIS    BACK    TO    THE    WALL  409 

out  of  a  job,  whether  they  like  it  or  not.  When  they've 
starved  till  their  bones  are  rattling  they'll  come  back  to  us 
on  their  hands  and  knees.  You've  done  that.  It's  the  way 
you  raise  their  wages.  The  way  you  better  their  lot.  Pshaw ! 
you're  like  the  rest  of  'em,  only  you're  worse,  because  you're 
legally  dishonest,  too.  So  long  as  the  papers  are  full  of 
you,  so  long  as  your  workers  cheer  you  to  the  echo,  and  you 
can  sign  orders  giving  the  world  permission  to  go  on  moving 
around  in  space,  so  long  as  your  pocketbooks  are  fattened 
by  the  blind  ignorance  of  those  you  represent,  what  in  hell 
do  you  care  for  the  worker?  I'm  sick  to  death  of  you  and 
your  rotten  kind.  To  do  good  there  must  be  honesty  in 
you — and  there's  none.  You  make  the  worker  suffer  weeks 
and  weeks  of  misery  and  hardship,  goading  him  into  the  be- 
lief that  he  is  all-powerful,  for  some  paltry  betterment  that 
does  not  begin  to  make  up  for  what  he  has  suffered.  You 
never  let  him  rest  and  prosper.  You  drive  him,  year  after 
year,  till,  by  the  time  he  ends  up  his  miserable  life  in  pov- 
erty, he  can  reckon  a  large  proportion  of  it  has  been  spent 
in  wilful  idleness  which  has  helped  further  to  rob  him  of  any 
adequate  provision  for  his  wife  and  children.  It  makes  me 
sick.  As  long  as  the  world  lasts  labor  must  be  the  under  dog. 
You  cannot  lift  labor  if  it  cannot  lift  itself.  Brute  force 
must  remain  subservient  to  brain.  With  your  unclean  hu- 
man hands  you  are  striving  to  drive  labor  to  a  vain  effort  to 
overthrow  one  of  the  greatest  laws  of  all  life." 

For  the  moment  Hendrie  seemed  to  have  lost  himself  in 
the  interest  of  his  own  subject,  but  he  was  abruptly  brought 
back  to  the  affairs  in  hand  by  the  smiling  sarcasm  of  his 
prisoner. 

"Quite  a  lecture,"  he  cried.     "Say,  Leo— 

But  he  reckoned  without  the  loyal  Scot  behind  him. 

"Quit  your  gas,"  cried  Angus,  in  a  threatening  tone. 

Leyburn  turned  with  sudden  ferocity.  But  before  he 
could  voice  his  exasperation  Hendrie  broke  in. 

"Easy,"  he  cried.  "Don't  raise  your  voice  here.  There's 
a  sick  woman  upstairs.  A  woman  sick  to  death.  And  it's 
because  of  her  you're  here  now." 

Leyburn  looked  quickly  up  into  the  big  man's  face.  It 
had  changed,  changed  utterly.  All  the  old  calm  had  gone. 
Memory,  memory  inspired  by  thoughts  of  the  desperate 


410  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

straits  of  the  woman  he  loved,  had  left  the  millionaire's 
every  nerve  straining. 

"Sick  woman?"  cried  Leyburn.  "What  in  hell  have  I  to 
do  with  your  sick  women  folk?" 

Hendrie's  eyes  had  become  bloodshot.  The  Scot  watched 
him  closely  and  with  some  apprehension. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  cried  the  millionaire,  his  jaws  shut- 
ting tight  on  his  cigar.  "The  woman  who's  sick  is — my 
wife." 

Leyburn  burst  into  a  derisive  laugh. 

"Your  wife?"  he  cried.  "Your  wife?  What  about  Audie? 
What  about  the  woman  you  left  to  starve — to  die  out  on 
the  Yukon  trail?"  He  glanced  round  at  Angus  to  witness 
the  effect  of  his  challenge.  "His  wife,"  he  said  deliberately 
addressing  the  Scot.  "He  left  her,  deserted  her  with  her 
unborn  child." 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  a  man  is  face  to  face  with 
death  without  being  aware  of  it.  This  was  such  a  moment. 
Hendrie's  hand  was  on  a  loaded  revolver  in  his  coat  pocket, 
and  a  mad  impulse  urged  him  to  silenec  that  virulent,  taunt- 
ing tongue  then  and  there.  Fortunately  Leyburn  ceased 
speaking  in  time,  and  the  impulse  passed. 

"We'll  talk  of  that  later,"  cried  Hendrie,  the  blood  still 
beating  madly  at  his  temples,  but  his  words  almost  calm. 
"Meanwhile  it's  about  my  wife  you're  here.  Mrs.  Hendrie 
is  sick  to  death  upstairs  for  want  of  a  surgeon's  aid.  The 
man  who  can  save  her  is  in  Winnipeg.  Your  strike  on  the  rail- 
road keeps  him  from  getting  here  in  time  to  save  her.  Do 
you  understand?  You're  here  to  save  her  by  giving  an 
order  to  your  union  members,  and  those  in  authority  over 
them,  to  permit  a  special  train  to  bring  him  here.  That's 
what  you're  here  for,  and — by  God,  you're  going  to  give  it." 

The  veins  were  standing  out  like  ropes  on  his  forehead 
as  he  uttered  his  final  threat.  Leyburn  understood.  But 
he  could  not  resist  an  impulse  to  challenge  him  further. 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  he  demanded,  with  brows  raised  super- 
ciliously. 

"But  you  won't,"  retorted  Tlendrie.  "Oh,  no,  you  won't, 
my  friend."  Then  in  a  moment  his  eyes  blazed  up  with  that 
curious  insane  light  Angus  knew  so  well.  A  deep  flush  over- 
spread his  great  face.  "I  told  you  my  back  was  to  the 


HIS    BACK    TO    THE    WALL  411 

wall,"  he  cried.  "I  told  you  that.  And  you — you  poor, 
miserable  fool,  believed  it  was  because  of  your  pitiful  attempt 
to  break  me.  I  could  laugh  to  think  that  you — you — Tug — 
the  man  I  robbed  on  the  Yukon  trail,  could  ever  hope  to 
beat  me  when  it  came  to  measuring  our  strength.  Never 
in  your  life.  But,  all  unconsciously,  you  have  hurt  me ;  yes, 
you  have  hurt  me — and  you're  going  to  undo  that  hurt." 
Slowly  he  withdrew  his  right  hand  from  his  coat  pocket, 
and  continued,  pointing  his  words  with  the  shining  revolver 
his  hand  was  gripping. 

"You're  going  to  write  that  order  out  now — here,  in  this 
room.  You're  going  to  write  it  so  there  can  be  no  mistake. 
One  of  your  men — one  of  your  lieutenants — the  man  you 
call  Frank  Smith  is  going  to  take  it  and  see  that  it  is  obeyed. 
He  will  also  accompany  the  train.  You'll  write  it  now — this 
moment,  do  you  understand?  Now — here — or  I'll  shoot  you 
down  for  the  miserable  cur  you  are." 

Angus  was  sitting  bolt  up  in  his  chair.  His  hard  eyes 
were  alight.  He  knew  the  mood  of  his  employer,  and  even 
he  dreaded  what  might  follow. 

But  Leyburn,  too,  had  realized  something  of  ihe  insane 
passion  driving  this  man.  Nor  had  he  any  desire  to  test 
it  too  far.  However,  he  still  demurred.  He  knew  that  for 
the  second  time  in  his  life  this  great  Leo  had  the  best  of  him, 
and  he  must  submit.  But  his  submission  should  be  full  of 
fight. 

"This  man.  This  Frank  Smith,"  he  said,  looking  squarely 
into  the  millionaire's  eyes.  "Does  he  know  what  relation 
he  is  to  you  ?" 

"No.    Do  you?"    Hendrie's  reply  bit  through  the  silence. 

Leyburn  nodded.     He  was  grinning  savagely. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  discovered  it  soon  after  I — discovered 
you." 

Hendrie's  eyes  were  blazing. 

"Good,"  he  said.  "Then  it'll  help  to  embellish  the  story 
you'll  have  to  tell  him — after  he  returns  from  Winnipeg." 

"After?"     Leyburn  started. 

Hendrie  nodded.  But  his  revolver  was  still  tightly 
clutched  in  his  hand. 

"Perhaps  I  have  a  poor  estimate  of  human  nature,"  he 
said.  Anyway — of  yours.  I've  taken  all  the  chances  with 


412  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

you  I  intend  to  take.  You  are  going  to  stop  right  here — • 
after  you've  written  that  order." 

"But — if  I  write  this  order  as  you  want  it,  you  can't, 
you've  no  right " 

"Right?"  Hendrie  laughed  savagely.  "Right?"  he  re- 
iterated scornfully.  "We've  done  with  all  question  of  right 
just  now.  For  the  moment  I'm  the  top  dog,  and  until  you've 
complied  with  all  my  demands,  you  can  put  the  question  of 
right  out  of  your  mind.  There's  the  paper  and  ink,"  he 
went  on,  moving  away  from  the  desk.  "Make  out  that  order 
— at  once." 

Leyburn  made  no  attempt  to  comply.  He  sat  there  with 
his  narrow  eyes  on  the  man  standing  threateningly  con- 
fronting him.  He  was  thinking — thinking  rapidly.  He 
was  afraid,  too.  More  afraid  than  he  would  have  admitted. 
Besides,  if  he  were  detained  until  Frank  returned — then 
what  of  Calford?  What  of  the  railroad  strike?  What  of 
a  thousand  and  one  demands  awaiting  his  attention.  It 
was  impossible.  He  broke  into  a  cold  sweat.  Then  his 
eyes  wandered  to  the  shining  barrel  of  that  revolver.  He 
noted  the  tremendous  pressure  of  muscle  in  the  hand  grasp- 
ing it.  There  was  a  storm  of  passion  lying  behind  that 
pressure.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  greenish  gray  of  Hen- 
drie's.  To  him  their  expression  was  surely  not  sane. 

"Write  that  order!" 

The  millionaire's  revolver  hand  was  slowly  raised.  Ley- 
burn  saw  the  movement.  At  the  same  time  he  became  aware 
that  Angus  was  moving  his  chair  out  of  the  direct  line  of 
fire.  He  was  beaten,  and  he  knew  it. 

"Hell  take  you !"  he  cried,  rising  from  his  seat.  "Give 
me  the  paper!" 

Hendrie  pointed  at  the  desk  without  a  word.  Leyburn 
followed  the  indication.  Then  he  walked  over  and  seated 
himself  in  the  millionaire's  chair. 

For  several  minutes  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but 
the  scratching  of  the  labor  leader's  pen.  Angus  looked  on, 
watching  his  employer  and  wondering.  He  was  wondering 
what  really  would  have  happened  had  Leyburn  refused. 
Somehow  he  felt  glad  he  had  moved  out  of  the  line  of  fire. 
Hendrie's  eyes  never  left  the  figure  bending  over  the  desk. 

At  last  Leyburn  flung  down  the  pen. 


TWO    MEN  413 

"There's  the  order,"  he  cried,  rising  from  the  desk.  "It's 
absolutely  right.  No  one  will  disobey  it,"  he  declared 
ostentatiously.  "Now  I  demand  to  be  allowed  to  go  free." 

The  millionaire  picked  up  the  paper,  blotted  it,  and  then 
carefully  read  it  over.  He  was  satisfied.  It  seemed  all  he 
could  desire.  He  looked  up  and  shook  his  head. 

"You'll  remain  my — guest — till  the  surgeon  arrives,"  he 
said. 

Ley  burn  suddenly  threw  up  his  hands,  and  the  movement 
was  an  expression  of  panic. 

"It  will  take  a — week!"  he  cried  desperately. 

"You'll  remain  my — guest — until  he  comes."  Hendrie's 
voice  and  manner  were  utterly  savage.  "If  he  is  too  late 
to  save  her,  my  promise  goes  if — I  swing  for  it." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TWO   MEN 

THE  devastation  of  the  wheat  lands  of  Deep  Willows  was 
complete.  The  home  of  Alexander  Hendrie  itself,  stood 
out  scathless,  the  center  of  a  blackened,  charred  waste.  It 
was  a  mockery,  a  pitiful  mockery  of  its  recent  glory. 
Against  its  somber,  naked  surroundings  the  delicate  paint 
work  of  its  perfect  wooden  structure  left  a  vulgar,  even 
tawdry  impression  of  the  mind.  It  looked  as  out  of  place  as 
bright  colors  at  a  plumed  funeral.  The  home  farm,  the 
outlying  farms  for  miles  around,  they,  too,  stood  as  they  had 
stood  before,  while  all  the  live  stock,  their  "feed,"  the  ma- 
chinery, had  escaped  the  ravages  of  the  sea  of  fire  by  reason 
of  the  well-planned  "fire-breaks"  which  the  cautious  Scot 
kept  in  perfect  order. 

The  fire  had  stripped  the  river  banks,  too.  The  beautiful 
wooded  slopes,  the  pride  and  delight  of  their  owner  and  his 
manager,  were  now  mere  blackened  skeletons  whose  molder- 
ing  limbs  were  beyond  even  the  power  of  time  to  heal. 

It  was  a  terrible  destruction,  so  wanton,  so  useless,  even 
as  an  expression  of  human  hatred.  So  utterly  was  it  lacking 
in  this  respect  that  it  became  nothing  short  of  an  insult  to 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

the  Creator  of  all  things  rather  than  an  act  of  vengeance 
of  human  upon  human.  The  only  real  sufferers  would  be 
those  whose  hands  had  wrought  the  mischief,  a  suffering 
that  must  be  surely  just. 

Hendrie  himself  did  not  witness  daylight's  revelation. 
Long  before  morning  he  was  in  Calford,  accompanied  by 
Frank,  whose  work  had  been  the  secret  bestowal  of  Leybum's 
chauffeur,  and  his  automobile,  until  such  time  as  the  man 
could  safely  be  permitted  to  return  to  the  world  to  which 
he  belonged.  Hendrie  and  his  helpers  had  committed  them- 
selves to  their  conspiracy  in  no  uncertain  fashion.  What- 
ever the  outcome  for  them  they  had  been  prepared  to  risk 
all  for  the  life,  which  at  least  two  of  them  valued  above 
all  else. 

But  the  man  whose  watch  and  ward  this  beautiful  farm 
had  been,  the  man  whose  fortunes  had  for  so  long  been 
bound  up  in  it,  was  early  enough  abroad,  and  his  sunken 
eyes,  brooding,  regretful,  hating,  witnessed  the  utter  ruin 
of  his  years  of  labor. 

Angus  Moraine  suffered  far  deeper  than  any  words  could 
tell.  It  was  like  a  mother  witnessing  the  destruction  of  an 
only  child,  for  this  farm,  and  all  pertaining  to  it,  was  as  his 
only  child.  He  loved  it  with  a  depth  of  affection  almost 
incongruous  in  a  man  so  hard,  so  unsympathetic  as  he. 
Yet  his  love  was  so  real  that  the  sight  that  daylight  revealed 
to  his  horror-stricken  eyes  well-nigh  broke  his  heart,  and 
set  him  hating  as  he  had  never  hated  in  his  life.  So,  as  he 
gazed  abroad,  he  thanked  Providence  that  his  was  the 
charge  of  their  captive,  even  though  that  captivity  were 
only  to  last  a  week. 

Yes,  Leyburn  was  his  prisoner — was  in  his  sole  charge. 
Perhaps  in  thus  committing  him  Hendrie  had  understood 
something  of  what  that  charge  would  mean.  Whether  he 
did  or  not,  certain  it  is  that  Leyburn,  before  the  week  was 
out,  had  reason  to  curse  the  day  that  had  brought  him  once 
more  into  contact  with  the  great  Leo. 

The  doings  of  the  night  before,  the  bringing  of  the  captive 
to  Deep  Willows,  had  been  kept  a  profound  secret  from  the 
household.  Long  before  morning  Leyburn  had  been  further 
spirited  off  to  the  inner  recesses  of  a  remote  farm  building 
where  his  jailer  promptly  instituted  a  rigor  of  treatment 


TWO    MEN  415 

far  less  merciful  than  that  of  the  harshest  penitentiary. 
Then  came  Angus  Moraine's  despair  at  the  sight  of  the 
utter  destruction  about  him,  and,  from  that  moment,  he 
laid  himself  out  to  the  punishment  of  his  victim,  as  only  his 
peculiar  mind  could  conceive  it.  For  every  pang  he  suf- 
fered he  determined  that  the  author  of  them  should  suffer 
double,  and  his  manner  of  achieving  it  was  inspired  by  the 
coldly  cruel  streak  which  was  part  of  his  hard  nature. 

True  to  his  intentions  he  achieved  a  hatred  in  Leyburn 
for  himself  that  scarcely  ranked  less  than  the  labor  leader's 
hatred  for  his  arch-enemy,  Leo.  Angus  baited  his  prisoner 
by  methods  of  almost  devilish  ingenuity.  He  spared  no 
pains,  no  trouble,  and  that  which  passed  between  them  was 
for  them  alone.  Certain  it  is  that  long  before  the  termina- 
tion of  the  imprisonment,  the  Scot's  dour  temper  had 'im- 
proved, a  sure  sign  that  even  from  the  great  disaster  which 
had  befallen  his  wheat  lands  he  had  contrived  to  draw  some 
slight  satisfaction. 

In  the  meantime  the  two  men  in  Calford  were  engaged  on 
a  delicate  mission,  in  spite  of  their  possession  of  Leyburn's 
written  instructions  to  his  colleagues.  Upon  Frank  devolved 
the  chief  work.  Alexander  Hendrie  dared  not  appear  in  it. 
Frank  was  known  to  be  Leyburn's  lieutenant,  and,  as  such, 
he  was  received. 

But  there  was  much  formality,  an  exhaustive  inquisition 
as  to  Leyburn,  his  whereabouts,  the  work  he  was  engaged 
upon,  the  purpose  of  his  order  and;  Frank  was  forced  to 
lie  as  never  in  his  life  had  he  lied  before.  Money  had  to  be 
spent  freely  in  every  direction.  The  railroad  company  had 
to  be  adequately  reassured  and  indemnified.  Its  fears  of 
disaster  to  itself  had  to  be  lulled,  and,  in  the  process,  the 
expenditure  of  money  was  staggering.  The  conflicting 
forces  at  work  in  every  direction  were  appalling.  Among 
the  strikers,  their  leaders,  and  then  the  railroad  company. 
So  much  inhumanity  and  ignorance  prevailed  under  the 
cloak  of  humanity  that  almost  at  any  moment  during  the 
negotiations  the  whole  project  might  well  have  fallen  to  the 
ground. 

Finally,  however,  the  last  obstacle  was  overcome,  the  last 
difference  adjusted,  and  the  hour  for  departure  came.  Ad- 
hering to  their  methods  of  conducting  the  negotiations,  the 


416  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

final  Godspeed  was  spoken  in  the  privacy  of  Hendrie's 
rooms  in  the  hotel  at  which  he  was  staying. 

It  was  brief  enough,  as  became  the  existing  relations  be- 
tween the  two  men. 

Frank  received  his  final  instructions  concerning  Professor 
Hinkling,  and  stood  waiting. 

Hendrie  paused  for  a  moment,  considering.  Then  he 
looked  into  the  boy's  serious,  earnest  face,  with  a  shadowy 
smile  in  his  steady  eyes. 

"Keep  it  in  your  mind,  boy,  that  poor  Mon  is  depending 
on  you,"  he  said.  "Her  life  is  in  your  hands — for  the  mo- 
ment. Bring  him  back  with  you.  Bring  him  back  if  you 
have  to  fight  the  whole  way,  and — well,  I  guess  God'll  bless 
you  for  it." 

Frank  nodded.  Then  the  millionaire,  after  a  fractional 
pause,  crossed  to  the  door  and  held  it  open.  Frank  looked 
into  his  face  for  one  fleeting  second.  Then  he  moved  toward 
the  door.  A  look  of  indecision  was  in  his  eyes,  but  finally 
he  turned  deliberately,  and  with  decision. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Hendrie,"  he  said.  Then  he  added  in  a 
low,  earnest  tone.  "I  thought  I  hated  you,  sir,  but — I 
don't." 

The  millionaire  made  no  reply,  and  the  boy  passed  out. 

Nor  was  the  latter  conscious  of  the  deepening  tenderness 
in  the  older  man's  eyes.  All  he  felt,  all  he  knew,  was  that 
the  last  shadow  of  the  past,  of  his  past  sufferings  at  this 
man's  hands,  had  been  swallowed  up  in  the  great  bond  of 
sympathy  now  existing  between  them.  Each  man  was  ready 
to  lay  down  even  his  life  for  one  poor,  helpless,  sick  woman ; 
each  was  inspired  by  a  love  that  now  knew  no  limits  to  its 
sacrifice  of  self. 

Hendrie  turned  back  from  the  door  with  a  deep  sigh.  He 
raised  his  right  hand  and  stood  thoughtfully  gazing  at  it. 
It  was  almost  as  if  he  were  examining  it,  seeking  something 
his  conscience  told  him  he  would  find  upon  it.  He  knew,  too, 
that  his  thought  was  of  something  unclean.  He  knew,  too, 
that  however  much  he  had  longed  to  grip  the  departing 
boy's  hand  in  honest  affection  he  had  no  right  to  do  so — 
yet. 

His  return  to  Deep  Willows  was  almost  precipitate.  He 
wanted  to  spend  not  a  moment  more  than  was  necessary 


TWO    MEN  417 

away  from  the  roof  which  sheltered  Monica.  The  chaotic 
condition  of  railroad  affairs  in  Calford  interested  him  not 
one  whit  now.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  rights  or  wrongs 
of  the  battle  raging  between  labor  and  capital.  The  weary 
women  and  hungry  children  of  the  strikers,  for  all  he  cared 
could  die  in  the  ditches  their  husbands  had  dug  for  them. 

As  for  the  employers,  let  them  fight  their  battles  out  as 
best  they  could.  It  mattered  not  at  all  if  the  country's 
entire  trade  were  left  at  a  standstill,  nor  was  it  of  conse- 
quence what  anarchy  reigned.  The  stock  markets  might 
collapse,  and  shares  might  fall  beyond  redemption.  His 
wealth  counted  for  nothing  in  the  stress  of  his  feelings. 
Just  one  thing  counted;  one  poor,  flickering,  suffering  life. 

So  he  rushed  headlong  back  to  Deep  Willows  to  pass  the 
time  of  waiting  with  what  patience  he  could.  Humanly 
speaking,  he  had  played  his  last  card  for  the  saving  of  that 
one  life,  so  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  pace  the 
floors  of  his  luxurious  home  hoping  and  fearing,  now  threat- 
ening to  himself  the  life  of  the  man  who  had  made  the  chances 
of  timely  help  so  remote,  now  praying  to  Almighty  God,  as 
never  in  his  life  he  had  prayed  before,  to  spare  him  the  life 
he  loved. 

He  had  reached  the  one  terrific  moment  in  his  life  when 
he  realized  that  the  world,  in  which  his  heart  and  mind  had 
been  so  long  wrapped,  meant  nothing.  He  was  down  to  the 
bare  skeleton  of  human  nature  when  primal  passions  alone 
counted.  He  knew  that  he  had  shed  for  ever  the  coat  of 
civilization.  It  had  always  fitted  him  ill.  Now  the  natural 
love  of  man  for  woman,  male  for  female,  in  its  simplest  form, 
dominated  his  whole  being.  And  with  it  came  all  those  sav- 
age instincts  with  which  the  natural  world  seeks  to  protect 
its  own. 

The  destruction  of  his  wheat  lands  passed  him  by.  He 
did  not  see  that  blackened  world  as  his  loyal  servant  Angus 
saw  it.  He  had  neither  patience  nor  inclination  to  listen  to 
lamentations,  just  as  he  had  no  lamentation  to  make  over  it 
for  himself. 

His   attitude   reflected   itself  in  his   surroundings.      The 

house  remained  silent  as  the  grave.     Angus  avoided  him,  and 

devoted  all  his  attention  to  his  prisoner.      The  nurses  and 

the  doctor  devoted  themselves  to  the  last  ounce  of  their 

28 


418  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

strength  to  their  patient ;  and  the  servants  went  about  their 
duties  with  hushed  voices,  which  left  the  great  hou,«e  with  the 
atmosphere  of  a  sepulcher. 

Hendrie  rarely  left  his  library.  Hour  after  hour  he  spent 
in  desperate  solitude.  His  pretence  was  work,  but  he  did 
none.  And  Phyllis  alone  dared  to  approach  him. 

From  her  he  drew  some  comfort.  Her  wonderful  tact, 
and  even  affection,  showed  her  the  way  to  bring  him  a  meas- 
ure of  that  mental  ease  he  so  desperately  needed.  Only  once 
during  that  terrible  week  of  waiting  did  she  make  a  mistake. 
She  knew  she  had  made  it  the  moment  the  words  had  passed 
her  lips,  and  it  became  a  lesson  she  knew  she  would  never 
need  again. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  of  Frank's  absence.  She  was 
beginning  to  catch  something  of  the  infection  of  Hendrie's 
restless  unease.  Doubt  of  the  success  of  Frank's  mission 
was  creeping  through  her  armor  of  optimism.  She  was 
troubled,  and  so  her  moment  of  weakness  came. 

"I — I  wonder  if  he'll  succeed.  I  wonder — if  he'll  be  in 
time,"  she  said. 

Then  in  a  moment  she  caught  her  breath  at  the  sudden 
and  awful  expression  of  the  man's  eyes.  They  blazed  up 
with  a  wild,  insane  light.  He  broke  into  a  loud,  harsh  laugh. 

"If  he  doesn't,  you'll  see  me  at  the  gallows,  girl,"  he 
cried. 

Phyllis  had  cried  out  in  protest.  Then,  in  something  like 
panic,  she  rushed  from  the  room. 

That  night  she  was  haunted  by  dreams  so  hideous  that 
long  before  daylight  she  had  left  her  bed,  and  joined  the 
night  nurse. 

Once  more  her  fear  got  the  better  of  her,  but  here  she  was 
met  by  the  practical  trained  mind  of  a  woman  who  was  de- 
voted to  her  work. 

"If  Hinkling  doesn't  get  here  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day 
— well,  poor  soul,  she's  in  the  hands  of  some  one  who  knows 
best.  Doctor  Fraser  gave  too  big  a  margin,  I  think.  Still, 
we  must  hope  for  the  best.  Poor  soul,  she  knows  nothing — 
so  she  can't  be  suffering.  I  see  Mr.  Hendrie's  light  is  still 
burning  in  the  library.  He'll  be  in  the  doctor's  hands  if 
Hinkling  doesn't  get  here — in  time." 

Phyllis  agreed.    She  knew  it,  too.    She  knew  the  desperate 


TWO    MEN  419 

condition  of  the  man's  mind,  and  her  knowledge  told  her 
that  the  balance  was  wavering. 

The  fifth  day  dawned.  Still  there  was  no  news.  But  none 
could  reach  them.  The  day  after  Hendrie's  return  from 
Calford  the  telegraph  wires  had  been  cut,  and,  since  then, 
all  communication  had  been  left  intermittent.  The  wires 
were  repaired,  and,  within  a  few  hours,  cut  again.  And  so 
it  had  gone  on.  The  automobile  had  been  waiting  in  Calford 
for  two  days  now,  and  all  knew  that  the  only  indication  of 
the  success  of  Frank's  mission  would  be  the  return  of  the 
vehicle  with  its  precious  freight. 

Thus  on  this  day  all  eyes  and  thoughts  turned  upon  the 

trail  through  the  blackened  wheat  fields. 

********** 

It  was  noon.  Phyllis  and  the  millionaire  were  standing 
at  the  entrance  porch.  The  sun  was  beating  down  upon 
their  bare  heads  all  unnoticed,  all  uncared.  The  eyes  of  the 
man  never  left  the  sweep  of  the  trail  where  it  rounded  the 
skeleton  woods  which  lined  the  river  bank.  The  girl  had 
wearied  of  the  straining,  and  now  watched  her  com- 
panion. 

In  her  heart  was  a  great  pity  for  him.  His  eyes  were  no 
longer  the  steady  eyes  she  knew  so  well.  They  were  blood- 
shot and  sunken.  The  veins  at  his  temples,  and  of  his  neck, 
were  standing  out  like  ropes.  It  seemed  to  her  imagination 
that  all  his  great  bodily  strength  was  concentrated  at  the 
breaking  point.  Painful  as  was  her  own  anxiety,  it  was  as 
nothing  beside  the  fear  his  attitude  inspired  her  with.  If 
Frank  failed? — but  she  dared  not  think  of  it. 

Suddenly  she  started.  Just  for  one  moment  a  look  of 
dreadful  doubt  looked  out  of  her  eyes,  now  abruptly  turned 
upon  the  trail  again.  Had  her  prairie-trained  ears  deceived 
her,  or —  — ?  She  dared  not  glance  again  in  Hendrie's  di- 
rection until  she  was  sure.  She  listened.  Then  a  wild  excite- 
ment lit  her  face.  She  moved.  She  reached  out.  One  hand 
suddenly  gripped  the  arm  of  the  man  beside  her.  He  made 
a  movement  as  though  to  free  himself,  but  her  nervous  clutch 
only  tightened. 

"Listen !"  she  cried.  Then  in  a  moment :  "Oh,  if  he's  suc- 
ceeded. Oh,  if  he's  only  got  him  with  him !" 

"Silence,  child!" 


420  THE    WAY    OF   THE    STRONG 

The  man's  harsh  voice  rang  out,  and  Phyllis,  even  in  her 
excitement,  quailed  at  the  tone. 

Now,  side  by  side,  with  eyes  and  ears  straining,  the  girl 
still  clinging  to  the  man's  arm,  they  stood  waiting. 

That  familiar  purr.  Soft,  soft,  a  low,  deep  note  thrilling 
with  hope  for  the  watchers.  But  it  was  far  away,  so  far 
that  the  man,  whose  ears  were  less  well  trained,  could  only 
just  hear  it. 

To  Phyllis  it  was  distinct  now,  and  growing  in  volume 
with  each  passing  moment.  Oh,  that  precious  note.  What 
music.  No  such  perfect  music  could  ever  have  fallen  on 
straining  ears.  Its  gentle  softness  suggested  but  one  thing 
to  the  girl.  It  was  the  hope  of  life.  She  felt  that  no  such 
warmth,  no  such  modulation  could  have  been  in  that  which 
was  the  herald  of  disaster. 

The  man's  imagination  was  less  sensitive.  His  usually 
firm  mouth  was  twitching.  There  was  water  in  his  eyes, 
but  it  was  not  tears,  nor  was  it  the  result  of  excitement.  It 
was  the  strain  he  was  putting  forth  to  catch  the  first  sight 
of  the  vehicle,  and  count  its  passengers  as  it  came. 

He  shivered  once.  The  girl  felt  the  shiver,  and  she,  too, 
shook  with  excitement.  She  was  leaning  forward. 

At  last  she  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  broke  from 
her  companion,  and  flew  down  the  trail  as  fast  as  her  active 
young  limbs  could  carry  her.  She  must  be  the  first  to  con- 
vey the  good  news  to  the  breaking  heart  of  the  man  who 
remained  standing,  like  one  paralyzed,  by  the  porch  of  his 
splendid  home. 

On  she  ran,  on  and  on,  till  she  came  to  the  bend  where  the 
river  turned  away,  and  the  open  trail  went  straight  on,  and 
the  bluffs  of  Everton  lay  in  full  view. 

Here  she  halted  and  gazed  out.  For  some  moments  she 
stood  watching,  watching.  Then,  at  last,  she  turned  and 
began  to  run  back,  waving  her  hands  in  a  frenzy  of  ecstasy 
as  she  came. 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  within  hailing  distance  of  the 
man,  and  she  halted. 

"Four  of  them!"  she  gasped  frantically.  "Four  of  them 
in  the  car!  Frank's  brought  him!  Frank's  brought  him!" 


THE    STORY    OF   LEO 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   STORY   OF   LEO 

IT  was  evening.  The  afterglow  of  sunset  still  shed  its 
golden  radiance  upon  a  blackened  world,  striving  vainly  to 
burnish  with  its  gentle  luster  the  depressing  aspect  of 
charred  fields.  The  cool  August  breezes,  usually  so  fresh 
and  sweet  at  sundown,  were  tainted,  scarcely  unpleasantly, 
with  the  reek  of  dead  fire. 

Two  figures,  apparently  absorbed  in  themselves,  were 
pacing  slowly  the  broad  trail  which  fronted  Deep  Willows. 
They  were  talking,  talking  earnestly  of  those  things  which 
concerned  their  lives,  while  their  anxious  hearts  were  waiting 
with  almost  sickening  dread,  for  the  moment  when  a  sum- 
mons should  reach  them,  that  they  might  learn  the  verdict 
of  hope  or  disaster  which  Providence  had  in  store  for  them. 

They  knew,  these  two,  these  boy  and  girl  lovers,  that  the 
life  of  the  one  they  had  learned  to  love  so  dearly  was  hover- 
ing in  the  balance.  They  knew  that  the  great  surgeon,  who 
had  journeyed  so  far,  and  under  such  strenuous  conditions, 
was  waging  the  human  side  of  a  great  battle. 

Was  he  once  more  to  be  victorious  over  Death,  or  would 
that  ruthless  specter  at  last  defy  him?  The  man  was  ac- 
counted infallible  by  a  thankful  world.  He  had  come  to  the 
rescue  fully  prepared  for  a  great  fight.  He  had  brought  not 
only  his  own  dresser,  but  also  his  own  anesthetist,  while  two 
competent  nurses  and  another  medical  man  were  on  the 
premises.  So  these  two  hoped,  while  their  hearts  were  yet 
plunged  in  a  perfect  maelstrom  of  fears. 

They  were  striving  with  all  their  might  to  pass  the  hours 
of  waiting.  Professor  Hinkling  had  been  with  his  patient 
from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  soon  after  noon.  He  was 
still  with  her  now,  when  the  great  August  sun  had  set  amid 
its  glory  of  fiery  cloud. 

Phyllis  halted  in  her  walk.  Quite  abruptly  she  raised  a 
pair  of  earnest,  admiring  eyes  to  her  lover's  face.  In  their 
depths  lay  all  that  which  can  raise  a  man  to  a  perfect  para- 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

dise  of  joy  and  hope.  Never  had  her  woman's  attraction 
been  more  evident  to  young  Frank  than  at  that  moment. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  realized  more  fully  than  at  this  mo- 
ment all  he  had  so  recently  striven  to  crush  out  of  his  life 
and  deny  himself  for  ever. 

"Say,  Frank,  dear,"  she  cried  ardently.  "The  more  I 
think,  why,  the  more  I  just  love  to  feel  you — you  are  my 
Frank,  and  it  was  you,  and  you  only,  could  have  brought 
Professor  Hinkling  through  here.  Say,  you  must  have  been 
well-nigh  crazy  with  the  worry — and — and  anxiety.  Oh,  if 
you'd  only  known  how  we,  Mr.  Hendrie  and  I,  felt  standing 
right  here  to-day  waiting — waiting  with  scarcely  a  reason 
to  hope  you'd  make  Deep  Willows  in  time.  D'you  know, 
Mr.  Hendrie  was  well-nigh  clean  crazed — sure?"  She  shud- 
dered. "I  never  saw  a  crazy  man  before,  but  he  was  crazy 
then.  I  watched  him.  I  was  scared — scared  toi  cleath." 

Frank  looked  out  over  at  the  great  house.  Suddenly  he 
breathed  a  deep  sigh. 

"I'm  glad,  Phyl,"  he  said  presently.  "I'm  glad— I  got 
here  in  time.  I'm  glad,  not  only  for  poor  Mon,  but  for — • 
him."  He  looked  down  into  the  girl's  eyes,  and  a  half  smile 
crept  into  his  own.  "It's  all  so  queer,"  he  went  on.  "I — 
I  ought  to  hate  that  man.  Yes,  I  ought.  And  I  just  feel 
like  a  sort  of  soft  worm  for  not  doing  so.  That's  a  fact, 
Phyl.  I  don't  hate  him.  I — I  like  him.  Do  you  know  I 
seem  to  have  seen  into  him,  right  deep  down  into  his  heart, 
and  it's — a  queer  place.  But  I've  seen  something  there  that 
appeals  to  me.  It  appeals  to  me  so  big  that  I — simply  can't 
hate  him.  It's  his  big  manhood.  He's  full  to  the  brim  of 
something  that  I've  never  understood  before.  Something 
I'm  just  beginning  to  understand.  And,  d'you  know,  I  don't 
believe  there's  nearly  so  much  of  it  going  around  as  folks 
pretend  to  believe.  Do  you  know,  Phyl,  I  believe  if  that 
man  were  dying  to-morrow  he'd  just  get  right  hold  of  Death, 
and — and  he'd  try  to  choke  the  life  out  of  him  before  he'd 
give  in." 

Phyllis  nodded  her  head  wisely. 

"You're  right,  dear,"  she  cried  impulsively.  "Can  you 
wonder  he's  where  he  is?  Can  you  wonder  he's  right  on  top 
of  the  things  other  folks  are  shouting  for,  but  haven't  the 
strength,  or  grit  to — to  just  grab  hold  of  for  themselves? 


THE    STORY    OF    LEO 

You're  feeling  just  like  I  do  about  him.  Guess  he's  so  big 
in  spirit  as  well  as  body.  That's  why  he's  on  top.  It's — 
it's  always  the  way." 

"Yes,"  Frank  admitted,  "that's  how  you've  always  said 
— and  I  think — now — you're  right.  I  didn't  always  think 
so — but  I  do  now." 

Phyllis  turned  away.  She  was  gazing  across  at  the  house, 
and  a  deep  look  of  enthusiasm  and  hope  was  shining  in  her 
eyes. 

"Do  you  know,  Frank,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  sort 
of  feel  our  Mon  will  win  out — now.  No,  I'm  not  just  think- 
ing of  Professor  Hinkling.  I'm  thinking  of  Mr.  Hendrie. 
I  sort  of  feel  he's  got  to  win  out  in — everything.  His  whole 
mind  and  heart's  on  Monica's  recovery,  and — and  I  believe 
they're  too  big  and  strong  for  Fate  to  break  him.  Oh,  I'm 
foolish,  I  know.  I'm  talking  like  a  crazy  girl,  but  I  just 
can't  help  it.  I  believe  he's  too  strong  even — for  Fate." 

Frank,  too,  was  gazing  across  at  the  house.  A  curious 
look  had  crept  into  his  eyes.  They  were  stern,  stern  and 
cold,  and  his  jaws  had  shut  tight. 

Phyllis,  glancing  up  at  him,  wondered.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  seen  such  a  look  in  her  lover's  eyes. 
Never,  even  in  those  dark  days  when  he  had  first  left  prison, 
had  she  seen  such  a  look  in  him.  And  yet  it  was  quite 
familiar.  It  was  a  look  she  knew  quite  well. 

She  started,  and  an  irresistible  impulse  stirred  her. 

"Frank !  Oh,  Frank !"  she  cried.  "If  you  could  only  see 
yourself.  Tell  me,  dear.  What  are  you  thinking?" 

"Thinking?" 

The  look  had  passed.  The  man's  eyes  were  now  gently 
smiling  down  into  the  girl's  eager  face. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,  Phyl,"  he  said  tenderly.  "I  was 
thinking  of  you  in  Mon's  place,  and  of  myself  in  Hendrie's. 
I  was  thinking  of  what  I  should  do.  Of  how  I  should  feel. 
I  was  thinking  that  I,  too,  should  want  to  take  Fate  in  my 
two  hands  and  compel  it  to  do  my  will." 

His  face  was  flushing  with  boyish  shame  at  the  apparent 
boastfulness  of  his  words,  but  he  had  spoken  the  truth. 

But  Phyllis  saw  nothing  of  the  braggart  in  his  words. 

"I  knew  it,  I  knew  it,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  shining  with 
love  and  admiration.  "Your  face  was  the  face  of  Alexander 


424  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

Hendrie  just  now.  I  have  seen  that  look  in  his,  not  once, 
but  a  hundred  times,  and — then  it  was  in  yours.  Oh,  Frank, 
I  am  so  glad,  so — so  glad  you  felt  like  that.  I  long  to  think 
and  feel  that  now  the  old  miserable  past  is  over  and  done 
with,  that  you,  too,  will  take  life  in  your  two  strong  hands, 
and — and  fight  out  the  big  battle  the  Almighty  Las  set  for 
men.  I  want  no  man  who  must  have  others  to  fight  for 
him;  I  want  no  man  who  will  cry  out  weakly  at  every  blow 
in  the  face;  I  want  no  man  who  will  yield  beneath  the  flail 
of  Fate.  I  want  the  man  of  big  courage,  the  man  of  fight. 
He  must  have  the  muscles  of  a  giant,  and  the  heart  of  a 
lion.  That  man  I  will  set  up  on  my  little  altar,  and  so  long 
as  I  live  I  will  go  down  on  my  knees  and  thank  God  for  His 
goodness  in  giving  him  to  me." 

Frank  had  no  words  in  which  to  answer.  A  great  passion 
was  sweeping  through  his  veins  and  held  him  silent.  Of  a 
sudden  his  arms  reached  out  and  caught  the  girl's  slim  body 
in  their  powerful  embrace,  and,  regardless  that  they  were 
in  full  view  of  the  house,  he  crushed  her  to  his  bosom,  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

But  Phyllis  was  more  mindful  of  those  things,  and  swiftly 
released  herself  with  a  little  cry. 

"Frank!"  she  protested.     "Frank!" 

But  Frank  remained  smilingly  unrepentant. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  cried.    "I  don't  care  if  the  whole " 

He  broke  off  with  a  scared  look  in  the  midst  of  his  smile. 
Phyllis  was  pointing  across  at  the  house.  The  glass  entrance 
doors  had  just  swung  to,  and  a  man-servant  was  rapidly 
coming  toward  them. 

"It's — it's  about — Monica !"  Phyllis  exclaimed,  in  a  sud- 
den panic. 

The  man  addressed  himself  to  Frank. 

"Mr.  Hendrie  would  like  to  see  you  at  once,  sir.  He's 
in  the  library  now — waiting." 

Frank  looked  into  the  man's  inscrutable  face  in  anxious 
inquiry. 

"Is  there — has  there  been  any  word  of — Mrs.  Hendrie — 
yet?"  he  questioned  sharply. 

The  man's  sigh  was  in  perfect  order  with  his  training. 

"I  think  not— yet,  sir." 


THE    STORY    OF    LEO  425 

Frank  sighed,  too.  His  relief  was  lest  the  news  should 
have  been  bad.  His  eyes  sought  Phyllis's. 

Then  he  turned  again  to  the  man. 

"You  said — at  once?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Mr.  Hendrie  was  emphatic  on  the  point." 

Phyllis  looked  up  into  her  lover's  face. 

"You  best  hurry,  Frank." 

"Yes." 

Frank  hurried  away,  leaving  the  man  to  return  to  the 
house  at  his  leisure. 

Daylight  was  rapidly  dying.  Already  the  remoter  corners 
of  the  library  were  lost  in  growing  shadows.  Outside  the 
rosy  sunset  had  chilled  to  a  pale  yellow,  above  which  a  faint 
twinkle  of  stars  was  already  visible. 

Hendrie  was  sitting  astride  a  chair.  Its  back  was  turned, 
and  his  folded  arms  were  resting  upon  it.  His  great,  square 
chin  was  thrust  forward  supported  upon  them. 

His  eyes  were  gloomy,  and  coldly  brooding  as  they  sur- 
veyed the  other  two  occupants  of  the  room.  Austin  Leyburn 
was  seated  with  his  back  to  the  window,  and  his  face  was  lost 
in  the  shadow.  A  few  yards  away  from  his  charge  t»at  Angus 
Moraine.  His  watchful  eyes,  full  of  a  hatred  he  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal,  were  steadily  fixed  upon  the  other's 
shadowed  features. 

A  painful,  straining  silence  reigned  in  the  room.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  be  said  between  these  three  until  the 
arrival  of  the  man  whom  Hendrie  had  dispatched  a  servant 
in  search  of. 

Presently  the  door  opened.  Hendrie  half  turned  his  head. 
Leyburn's  eyes  lifted  in  the  direction.  Only  Angus  remained 
indifferent  to  the  arrival.  He  knew  that  his  reign  in  charge 
of  his  prisoner  was  over,  and  the  thought  was  as  gall  and 
wormwood  to  him. 

Frank  glanced  in  turn  at  the  three  figures.  Then  he  ap- 
proached his  host. 

"You  wished  to  see  me,  Mr.  Hendrie." 

The  millionaire  raised  his  head  and  nodded. 

"Yes,  boy,"  he  said,  and  Leyburn's  eyes  suddenly  lit  with 
a  venom  that  seemed  to  fit  with  their  narrow  setting. 

Now  Hendrie  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  proceed.     He  turned 


426  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

about  leisurely,  and  reached  over  to  his  cigar  cabinet.  He 
selected  a  cigar  with  some  care,  smelled  it,  and  rolled  it 
lightly  between  finger  and  thumb.  Then  he  pushed  the  cabi- 
net along  the  desk  in  Frank's  direction. 

"Smoke?"  he  said,  and  bit  off  the  end  of  his  own  cigar. 

Frank  shook  his  head. 

"I'd  rather  smoke  my  pipe,"  he  said  simply. 

Hendrie's  eyes  became  less  cold.     He  nodded. 

"Sit — anyway,"  he  said,  in  his  brief,  almost  brusque 
fashion. 

Frank  obeyed,  and  the  other  lit  his  cigar. 

When  it  was  burning  satisfactorily,  he  turned  thoughtful 
eyes  on  Frank,  who  was  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  pipe. 

"Say,"  he  began,  evidently  thinking  hard,  "Hinkling's 
sent  word  he'll  be  along  in  a  while.  Couldn't  just  say  how 
long.  Seems  to  me  there's  got  to  be  some  talk  in  this  room 
—before  he  comes.  This  feller  here,  Austin  Leyburn,  or 
Tug,  as  I've  always  known  him,  is  full  to  the  brim  with 
stuff  he's  crazy  to  hand  out  to  the — general  public.  It's 
mostly  about  me.  You  see,  we  knew  each  other  well,  some 
twenty  years  ago.  He  sort  of  thinks  he  knows  a  heap  about 
me  I'd  hate  to  hand  on  to  anybody  else,  specially  you — 
and  Mrs.  Hendrie.  I've  been  trying  to  convince  him  this 
while  back  I'm  just  yearning  for  you  both  to  hear  all  he's 
got  to  tell,  but  I  want  to  be  around  so  I  know  he  tells  it 
right.  You  see,  it's  important  he  tells  it  right.  Guess  my 
being  around  don't  seem  to  suit  him,  and  he's  kicking.  Says 
he'll  tell  it  when  he  wants,  and  in  his  own  way.  Not  as  I 
want,  and  at  my  time.  He  says  he's  going  to  raise  trouble 
all  around  for  us — when  he  gets  away.  I've  told  him  he  can 
do  what  in  hell  he  likes — when  he  gets  away.  Meanwhile, 
you  are  going  to  hear  all  he  wants  you  to  hear  right  now. 
If  he  won't  tell  you  in  front  of  me  as  I  want  him  to,  then 
I'll  tell  it  you  in  front  of  him  as  he  don't  want  me  to.  If 
I  hide  anything  or  forget  anything,  or  tell  it  wrong,-  it's  up 
to  him  to  correct  me,  same  as  I  should  correct  him.  Whether 
he  likes  it  or  not,  that  story's  going  to  be  told  right  here  and 
now. 

There  was  no  mistaking  Alexander  Hendrie's  manner. 
Frank  knew  that  a  crisis  in  the  man's  life  had  arrived,  per- 
haps a  crisis  in  the  lives  of  all  those  present.  He  made  no 


THE    STORY    OF    LEO  427 

attempt  to  reply.  He  knew  that  the  millionaire's  words  were 
the  preliminary  to  a  skirmish  in  which  he  had  no  part  beyond 
that  of  an  onlooker. 

Hendrie  turned  to  Leyburn. 

"You  get  me?"  he  demanded.  "You  can  choose  to  tell — 
or  not.  I  don't  care  a  curse  which  you  do." 

Leyburn  suddenly  cleared  his  throat.  He  sat  forward  in 
his  chair  and  even  in  the  failing  light  it  was  plain — the 
furious  flashing  of  his  eyes.  Angus  lost  no  detail  of  any 
purpose,  other  than  to  talk,  in  his  prisoner.  He  sat  abso- 
lutely alert. 

"Yes,"  Leyburn  suddenly  cried  out.  "I'll  tell  the  story 
to  this — this  cur  of  a  boy  of  yours,  damn  you."  Then  he 
flung  out  an  arm,  pointing  at  the  man  astride  his  chair, 
smoking  in  his  steady,  unruffled  fashion.  "See  that  man," 
he  cried,  with  added  fury,  addressing  himself  to  Frank. 
"See  that  low-down  thief?  See  him,  a  cur  who  can  even  rob 
the  dead?  That's  your  father!" 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  It  was  a  moment  so  painful 
that  no  added  word  could  have  intensified  its  drama. 

Nor  was  any  word  forthcoming.  Hendrie  smoked  on. 
His  face  was  calm,  his  balance  of  restraint  was  quite  un- 
disturbed before  the  hideous  accusation. 

One  swift  glance  of  Frank's  blue  eyes  shot  in  his  father's 
direction,  but,  otherwise,  he,  too,  continued  to  smoke  his 
pipe  without  a  sign.  He  knew  it  was  not  for  him  to  speak 
— yet.  Angus  silently  gritted  his  teeth.  His  astonishment 
could  not  be  doubted.  Leyburn  alone  seemed  to  be  affected. 
He  had  lashed  himself  to  a  super-heat  by  his  own  words. 

"Say,"  he  cried,  still  addressing  himself  to  Frank.  "You 
young  skunk,  I  can  thank  you  for  all  this — this  that's  hap- 
pened here.  I  find  you,  a  jail-bird,  coming  straight  from 
the  penitentiary,  and  I  take  you,  make  a  man  of  you,  and 
this — this  is  the  way  you  repay  me.  But  I  might  have 
known  it  would  be.  If  ever  there  was  a  son  of  a  rotten 
father,  you  are  he.  The  three  of  you've  got  me  here.  You 
reckon  I'm  in  your  power.  Guess  none  of  you'd  stop  at 
murder,  if  it  suited  you.  I  tell  you  unless  you  do  it,  and 
do  it  quick,  there's  a  long  road  ahead  of  us  all,  and  we'll 
travel  it  together,  and  I'll  fight  you  every  inch  of  the  way." 

Hendrie  removed  his  cigar  from  between  his  lips. 


428  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"The  boy's  waiting  for  your  yarn.  The  other'll  keep  for 
—later." 

"Yes,  you're  right,  Leo.  Oh,  you're  right,"  Leyburn  re- 
torted passionately.  "It'll  keep  till  later.  Meanwhile  I'll 
get  on  with  the  story."  He  turned  again  to  Frank.  "You're 
this  man's  bastard.  You  understand — his  bastard.  Twenty 
years  ago  we  were  on  the  Yukon  together " 

"Not  together.     We  were  both  there,"  corrected  Hendrie. 

"Yes,  we  were  both  there.  You  were  living  with  your 
paramour — the  woman  Audie — this  fellow's  mother.  I  was 
with  my  partner,  Charlie.  He  was  sick  to  death.  We'd 
got  a  big  wad  of  gold  from  the  creek,  and  because  Charlie 
was  sick " 

"And  you'd  got  enough  gold  to  suit  your  purposes,"  put 
in  Hendrie  quietly. 

"We  decided  to  return  to  civilization,"  Leyburn  went  on, 
ignoring  the  interruption.  "I  hoped  to  get  him  cured." 

"So  you  made  him  face  the  winter  trail."  Hendrie's  addi- 
tion was  made  quite  without  passion. 

"We  set  out  down  country  with  our  dogs,  and  all  our 
goods,  and  gold,  and  got  held  up  by  a  blizzard.  We  were 
camped  in  a  bluff.  Charlie  could  not  stand  the  weather. 
He  got  so  weak  we  couldn't  travel.  Then  before  we  struck 
camp  he  died.  I  didn't  know  he  was  dead,  and  I  had  gone 
to  gather  firewood.  Meanwhile,  this  man  and  your  mother 
made  up  their  minds  to  return  to  civilization.  He  had  a 
big  wad  of  gold.  You  were  to  be  born  before  winter  was  out, 
and  your  mother  was  scared  to  have  you  born  up  there.  So 
she  made  this  man  bring  her  down.  She  reckoned  he  was 
honest,  and  would  marry  her.  She  reckoned  like  that  be- 
cause she  was  a  woman,"  he  added,  with  burning  contempt. 

He  waited  for  Hendrie's  comment,  which  came  promptly. 

"She  reckoned  that  way  because  she  knew  it  was  my  pur- 
pose," he  said  coldly. 

"But  you  didn't  marry  her,  did  you?"  Leyburn  cried 
tauntingly. 

"I  didn't  marry  her  because  she  was  dead  when  I  finally 
found  her  whereabouts." 

"But  she  did  not  die  till  after  you  deserted  her"  cried  Ley- 
burn,  with  venomous  triumph. 

"Best  go  straight  on  with  the  story.     You  want  the  boy 


THE    STORY    OF    LEO  429 

to  know  it  all — not  in  pieces."     Hendrie  went  on  smoking. 

Leyburn  turned  to  Frank  again. 

"And  it's  a  pretty  story,"  he  assured  him.  "Listen.  A 
week  after  we  started  down  the  trail  these  two  followed  us 
with  a  scout.  They,  too,  got  caught  in  the  blizzard.  They 
got  caught  in  the  open.  They  were  high  up  in  the  hills.  An 
accident  happened.  They  lost  their  gold,  dropped  with  a 
lot  of  their  baggage  over  a  precipice.  This  man  got  mad. 
He  loved  gold.  He  cared  for  nothing  else.  Your  mother 
was  nothing  beside  it.  She  was  just  a  burden.  Finally 
they  made  camp  a  few  miles  from  us.  After  a  while  this 
man  saw  our  smoke  in  the  distance.  He  stole  out  on  the 
excuse  of  fetching  wood.  He  tramped  to  our  camp.  He 
came  there  when  I  was  away  for  wood  and  Charlie  had  just 
died.  Finding  Charlie  dead,  and  no  one  about,  he  stole  our 
gold,  our  dogs  and  sled,  our  provisions  and  blankets,  and 
hit  the  trail  south,  leaving  your  mother  with  the  scout,  and 
me  to  walk  back  to  their  camp  or  starve.  That's  the  man 
who  is  your  father.  That's  the  man  you've  gone  over  to, 
and  sacrificed  your  pledges  to  humanity  for.  Do  you  un- 
derstand what  you've  done?  Do  you?  You've  helped  this 
criminal,  this  skunk  of  a  man  who  dishonored  your  mother, 
and  left  her  and  her  unborn  child  on  the  long  winter  trail  to 
die,  this  thief,  this  ghoul  who  could  rob  the  dead,  and  re- 
nounced your  most  sacred  pledges.  By  God,  you  are  your 
father's  son !" 

The  scorn  and  hatred  the  man  flung  into  his  final  charge 
was  far,  far  beyond  the  power  of  words. 

He  looked  for  its  effect,  waiting  for  Frank  to  take  up  his 
challenge.  But  he  remained  disappointed. 

"Well?"  he  urged,  with  gathering  fury. 

Still  there  was  no  answer  in  the  darkened  room. 

But  though  he  remained  silent  Frank's  heart  was  beating 
hard.  A  strange  excitement  was  plunging  wildly  through 
his  veins.  He  felt  that  he  wanted  to  reach  out  his  strong 
young  hands  and  do  hurt.  He  felt  at  that  moment,  and 
during  the  moments  he  was  hearkening  to  the  venomous 
story,  aggravated  by  every  hateful  inflection  that  could 
goad,  that  relief  could  only  come  in  violence.  And  his  de- 
sire was  to  silence  that  hateful  voice,  and  choke  the  story  it 
was  telling  back  into  the  throat  of  the  man  telling  it.  It  did 


430  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

not  hurt  him  to  hear  these  things  of  his  own  father  because 
he  was  his  father.  They  hurt  him  because  they  were  on  the 
tongue  of  this  man,  who,  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he 
had  learned  so  to  despise  and  hate. 

Alexander  Hendrie  shot  a  sidelong  glance  into  the  boy's 
face.  It  was  a  furtive  glance,  watchful  and  anxious.  Then 
his  eyes  returned  to  their  dark  brooding. 

A  moment  later,  as  Frank  made  no  response  to  the  man's 
challenge,  Hendrie  removed  the  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"You  stuck  nearer  the  truth  than  I  expected  you  would. 
Maybe  you  knew  it  would  be  useless  to  do  otherwise,  seeing 
I'm  here  to  put  you  right,"  he  said,  in  his  deep,  unruffled 
tones.  "Now- 

He  broke  off,  and  glanced  quickly  at  the  door  as  a  sharp 
knock  made  itself  heard.  Suddenly  he  held  up  his  hand,  as 
though  to  enjoin  silence,  and,  in  a  moment,  his  eyes  lit  with 
a  mingling  of  wild  hope  and  abject  fear. 

The  door  opened  and,  silhouetted  against  the  brilliantly 
lit  hall  beyond,  stood  the  slight  figure  of  an  elderly  man  with 
iron  gray  hair. 

Hendrie  sprang  to  his  feet  and  pressed  the  switch  of  the 
electric  light.  Then  he  turned  and  faced  Professor  Hinkling 
as  the  surgeon  advanced  into  the  room. 

The  little  man  came  straight  up  to  him  with  his  hand  out- 
stretched. His  clean-cut  features  were  smiling,  but  he  looked 
tired  and  nervous. 

"I  think,"  he  said  deliberately,  "we  have  turned  the  cor- 
ner, Mr.  Hendrie.  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  Mrs.  Hen- 
drie will  recover.  The  operation  has  been  quite  successful. 
I  shall  remain  with  Dr.  Fraser  to  watch  the  case  for  a  few 
days,  but  I  have  no  fears  of  ultimate  recovery.  We  were 
only  just  in  time.  Another  day."  He  held  up  his  hands  to 
signify  disaster,  and  the  millionaire  understood.  "My  best 
congratulations,  my  dear  sir.  She  should  be-  about  again  in 
less  than  a  month." 

The  door  closed  on  the  retreating  figure  of  the  great  sur- 
geon. For  a  moment  Hendrie  stood  looking  after  him. 
Then  he  abruptly  turned  and  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  into 
the  cuspidor  beside  his  desk.  Then  he  turned  again,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  round  upon  the  three  men  who  had  remained 


THE    STORY    OF    LEO  431 

perfectly  silent  during  the  surgeon's  brief  visit.  They  were 
different  eyes  now  which  finally  settled  upon  the  man  who  had 
so  recently  heaped  accusation  and  insult  upon  his  head. 
They  were  full  of  that  great  fighting  spirit  which  they  all 
knew  so  well. 

He  strode  up  to  Austin  Leyburn,  who  sat  watching  him 
speculatively,  who  was  waiting  for  whatever  development 
was  yet  to  come. 

"Get  up !"  he  cried,  with  a  deep,  underlying  ferocity  in 
his  voice  and  manner.  "Get  right  up  on  to  your  hind  legs. 
You  heard  what  he  said?  You  heard?"  He  drew  his  right 
hand  from  his  coat  pocket  and  produced  a  revolver.  "If 
his  verdict  had  been  otherwise  you  would  never  have  left 
this  room.  Every  chamber  of  this  gun  is  loaded,  and  each 
bullet  would  have  found  its  way  into  your  rotten  body.  As 
it  is,  you  can  go.  You  are  free.  Your  car,  and  your  man, 
will  meet  you  in  Everton.  Take  my  advice  and  get  away 
from  this  neighborhood  without  delay.  When  you  are  away 
remember  this.  You  can  take  what  action  you  like  for  what 
has  happened  here.  I  don't  care  a  curse.  But  I'll  warn  you 
right  here  and  now,  that  you  have  committed  criminal  con- 
spiracy in  playing  the  stock  market,  and  when  I  give  the 
word,  the  machinery  for  prosecution  will  be  set  moving 
against  you.  Further,  I'd  warn  you  that  if  one  word  of  the 
story  you've  told  here  to-night  reaches  the  world  outside, 
that  word  will  be  given,  and  you'll  pay  as  you  never  yet 
guessed  you'd  ever  pay  for  the  luxury  of  a  private  revenge. 
You  get  me  ?  Now  go  !  Go  quick !" 

Austin  Leyburn  was  on  his  feet.  The  two  men  stood  eye 
to  eye.  With  all  his  faults,  the  difference  between  them  left 
the  balance  absurdly  in  the  millionaire's  favor. 

"Yes,  I'll  go.  And  I'll  remember,"  cried  Leyburn  fiercely. 
"You  can  shout  now,  but  I'll  remember  everything.  You 
won't  have  to  set  that  machinery  in  motion,  but  when  the 
time  comes — and  I'll  be  looking  for  that  time  all  my  life — 
you'll  find  I  have  remembered  everything,  both  for  you  and 
—your  bastard  son. 

As  his  last  words  leaped  from  between  his  clenched  teeth 
he  moved  swiftly  across  to  the  door.  Hendrie  shot  a  quick 
glance  at  Angus,  and  the  watchful  Scot  promptly  followed 
him  out. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"It's  a  pretty  story,  Frank." 

Hendrie's  lips  were  smiling,  but  his  eyes  were  half  anxious, 
half  questioning. 

"Guess  it  hasn't  gained  niceness  from  that  feller,"  he  went 
on.  "No,"  he  added  thoughtfully.  "Nothing  ever  gained 
in  niceness  from  those  lips.  Tug  never  had  pleasant  ways. 

Still,  there  it  is — and "  In  spite  of  himself  his  eyes  were 

wholly  anxious  now — "it's  true,  when  you  clean  his  tone 
off  it." 

Frank  rose  from  his  chair  and  moved  away  across  the 
room.  His  movement  seemed  objectless,  yet  his  father  un- 
derstood. He  knew  that  a  great  conflict  was  going  on  withir 
that  silent  heart,  and  he  wondered. 

But  Leyburn's  venomous  manner  of  telling  his,  Hendrie's, 
story  had  satisfied  the  millionaire.  He  preferred  that  his 
son  should  know  it  from  its  worst  possible  aspect.  Thai 
was  why  he  had  forced  it  from  the  labor  man's  lips.  He 
desired  no  smoothing  over  of  the  roughnesses  of  his  pasl 
character.  Certainly  not  for  his  own  son's  benefit.  He  was 
determined  that  this  boy  should  sit  in  judgment  upon  hire 
with  his  eyes  wide  open  to  all  his  shortcomings.  He  wantec 
him  to  know  his  father  as  he  was. 

"I  wanted  him  to  tell  Monica,  too,"  Hendrie  went  on,  aftei 
a  pause.  "But  she's  not  fit  to  hear  it — yet.  Now  I'll  have 
to  tell  her  myself.  I  shan't  cover  things  up,  anyway.  There's 
just  one  thing  I  want  to  add.  It's  right  I  should  add  it, 
Leyburn  didn't  know  it."  He  smiled.  "Guess  no  one  knew  il 
but  me.  I  wanted  the  truth  from  him,  so  we'll  have  it  all.  ] 
want  to  tell  you,  after  your  mother  got  down  to  civilizatior 
I  spent  most  of  Tug's  gold  trying  to  find  her — to  marry  her 
It  took  me  weeks  and  weeks.  Then  I  found  she  was  dead, 
and  you — I  had  lost  you,  too." 

Frank  turned  round,  and  there  was  thankfulness  and  nc 
condemnation  in  the  eyes  that  looked  into  his  father's  across 
the  room.  Instantly  Hendrie's  face  became  set. 

"Say,"  he  cried  quickly,  "don't  think  I'm  squealing 
Don't  think  I'm  shuffling.  These  are  just  facts,  same  as  the 
others.  Get  a  grip  on  things,  boy.  I'm  wholly  unrepentanl 
for  the  things  I've  done.  Especially  for — helping  myself  tc 
Tug's  gold.  I  don't  go  back  on  anything  I  do.  These  things 
were,  and  I — stand  for  them.  There's  just  one  other  thing 


THE    STORY    OF    LEO 

I'd  like  you  to  know.  I  didn't  know  you  were  my  son  till  I 
set  about  getting  you  released  from  the  penitentiary.  I 
learned  that  from  Monica,  when  she  told  me  about  you.  I 
didn't  tell  her  of  my  discovery — again  this  is  the  truth — 
because  I  was  scared  to  lose  her  love.  You  see,  boy,  there 
are  some  things  make  cowards  of  us  in  spite  of  ourselves.  I 
told  you  that  before. 

"That's  pretty  well  all.  Maybe  there's  things  you'd  like 
to  know  later,  when  you  aren't  feeling  so  hot  about  this. 
Well,  I'll  be  glad  to  tell  you  when  you  want  to  hear  them. 
I'm  your  father,  boy,  and  Monica  is  your  stepmother. 
This  is  your  home,  same  as  any  other  place  I  own.  You've 
just  to  open  your  lips  and  say  the  word,  and  your  share  of 
all  I  have  is  waiting  for  you — everything  I  have  or — am. 
You  get  that?  It's  all  up  to  you.  You're  just  as  free  as 
you  were  before.  Your  own  decision  goes  with  me.  I  just 
want  you  to  get  me  clearly.  I  want  you  to  understand  all 
that's  in  my  head.  You  are  my  son,  and  I'm  proud  and 
pleased  about  it.  But — I  bend  the  knee  to  no  man — not 
even  to  you — my  son." 

The  man's  curious  dignity,  his  crude  truth,  and  deliberate 
honesty  of  purpose  were  superlative.  Frank  was  looking 
upon  the  man  as  he  was,  shorn  of  everything  that  could 
hide,  in  however  slight  a  degree,  the  rugged  character  that 
was  his,  and  he  knew  it. 

This  was  the  father  whose  violent  youthful  passions  had 
brought  him  into  the  world.  This  was  the  father  who  had 
given  him  the  breath  of  life  which  had  borne  him  upon  its 
stormy  bosom.  This  unrepentant  sinner.  This  strong  man 
among  strong  men.  This  human  creature  so  ready  to  err, 
yet  so  full  of  human  nature,  was  his  father. 

The  knowledge  somehow  left  him  no  sense  of  outrage.  He 
had  neither  resentment  nor  dislike.  Only,  in  the  back  of  his 
simple  mind,  was  a  lurking  admiration  for  one  who  had  the 
courage  to  talk  as  he  had  just  talked,  to  do  as  he  had  just 
done. 

He  drew  a  step  nearer. 

"Father,"  he  said.  Then  he  paused.  After  a  moment  he 
repeated  the  word.  "Father — it  sounds  queer  to  call  you 
'father,'  doesn't  it?" 

The  millionaire  nodded.     His  eyes  were  smiling. 


434  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"Your  ways  may  not  be  my  ways,"  he  went  on.  "I  don't 
know.  Anyway,  I  fancy  you  just  see  things  your  own  way, 
and  I  mine.  All  that  man  said  left  me  cold — except  one 
thing.  He  said  you — deserted  my  mother.  You've  cleared 
that  up — and  I'm  glad.  I'd  sooner  believe  the  truth  from 
you  than  from  him.  But  I  seem  to  have  heard  such  a  heap. 
I  seem  to  have  lived  through  years  this  past  week.  I  can't 
just  get  that  full  grip  you  spoke  of.  Maybe  I  will  after  a 
while.  Still — there's  a  thing  standing  right  out  in  my  mind, 
and — and  I'm  glad.  Our  Mon  is  going  to  get  through. 
God's  been  pretty  good  to  us  in  that.  She's  going  to  live  for 
us  both.  Say,  we  had  to  fight  hard — and  it's  good  to  fight — 
after  all.  Since  I've  tasted  wrhat  fighting  means  I  seem  to 
understand  some  of  your  life,  seem  to  understand  something 
of  you.  I'm  glad  we  were  to — gether  in  this.  I  think  I'll 
get  out,  and — just  walk  around.  I — yes,  I  want  to — 
think." 

The  millionaire  remained  where  he  was.  He  made  no 
movement.  His  eyes  were  on  his  son's  face.  He  saw  its 
color  come  and  go  in  the  brilliant  light  of  the  room.  His 
halting  speech  told  him  far  more  than  his  words.  He  knew, 
deep  down  in  his  heart,  that  all  he  desired,  all  he  longed  for, 
was  to  be  fulfilled. 

He  knew  that  in  the  midst  of  the  threatening  disaster  that 
had  so  long  hung  over  him,  when  all  the  world,  and  the 
powers  of  Fate  had  seemed  to  be  working  against  him,  not 
only  was  the  woman  he  loved  to  be  restored  to  him,  but  he 
was  to  find  and  recover  his — son. 

He  nodded  kindly. 

"Yes,  boy.  I  kind  of  know  how  you're  feeling.  Just  get 
around,  and — sort  things  out,"  he  said.  "When  you've 
done,  just  round-up  your  Phyllis  and  tell  her  the  things 
you've  heard.  I'd  like  you  to.  After  that,  if  you've  the 
notion,  you  can  come  right  back  to  me." 

Frank  drew  another  step  nearer.     His  father  waited. 

"Yes— father.     I— think  I  will." 

There  was  doubt  and  hesitation  in  the  boy's  words  and 
movements.  Hendrie  remained  quite  still.  Suddenly  Frank 
turned  away  and  walked  toward  the  door.  Half-way  across 
the  room  he  paused  again  irresolutely.  He  glanced  back. 
The  smiling  eyes  of  his  father  caught  his. 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  435 

In  a  moment  his  indecision  passed,  and  he  strode  back 
quickly  with  long,  firm  strides. 

As  he  drew  near,  his  great  right  hand  was  thrust  out. 

"Won't — won't  you  shake  hands,  father?"  he  cried. 

In  an  instant  his  hand  was  caught  in  a  crushing  grip. 

"Why,  yes,  lad,"  cried  Hendrie,  a  great  light  shining  in 
his  eyes.  "Say,  this  is  just  the  'greatest  moment  in  my 
life." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HENDRIE'S  WAY 

IN  spite  of  Professor  Hinkling's  best  assurance,  a  month 
of  weary  nursing  and  watching  followed  before  Monica's  re- 
covery became  assured.  The  operation  was  absolutely  suc- 
cessful, but  the  patient  herself  obstinately  refused  to  respond 
to  the  skill  that  sought  her  complete  recovery.  It  almost 
seemed  as  though  her  recuperative  powers  had  been  com- 
pletely destroyed,  for  she  lingered  close  to  the  border  which 
she  had  so  nearly  crossed,  and  Nature,  generally  so  accom- 
modating, utterly  refused  to  carry  her  away  from  it. 

Thus  it  was  that  Professor  Hinkling  stayed  on  and  on  at 
Deep  Willows,  puzzled  and  anxious.  He  sacrificed  his  great 
practice  to  that  one  flickering  life.  He  was  even  better  than 
his  word,  for  he  rarely  ever  left  the  house,  and  remained  in 
constant  attendance. 

Alexander  Hendrie,  a  prey  to  every  misgiving  which  his 
love  could  inspire,  watched  these  things  with  thankfulness 
and  gratitude  to  the  man  who  could  so  generously  bestow  his 
great  skill.  He  was  glad.  Though  he  knew  his  debt  to  this 
man  was  beyond  the  reach  of  mere  wealth  he  was  glad  that  it 
was  within  his  power  to  make  a  princely  effort  to  repay. 

Frank  and  Phyllis,  too,  found  themselves  well-nigh  de- 
spairing. Whenever  Phyllis  could  drag  herself  from  the 
vicinity  of  the  sick  room,  which  no  one  but  nurses  and 
doctors  were  permitted  to  enter,  she  spent  her  time  at  her 
lover's  side.  Together  they  shared  this  weary  trouble,  as 


436  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

they  shared  all  things,  buoying  each  other  with  words  of 
hope  and  confidence  which  had  no  stable  foundations  in  their 
minds.  In  Hendrie's  presence  they  avoided  the  subject  of 
Monica's  health  altogether.  It  was  enough  for  them  to  wit- 
ness his  brooding  eyes,  with  their  gloomy,  stormy  look,  which 
was  rarely  absent  from  them  now. 

The  reaction  from  his  moment  of  buoyant  hope,  when  he 
had  dismissed  Austin  Leyburn,  was  painful  to  all  who  ob- 
served it.  The  man's  heart  was  well-nigh  breaking,  and  a 
great  dread  filled  his  stormy  brain.  He  could  not  rest. 
Work — work  was  the  only  thing,  and  he  set  himself  a  pace 
which  human  machinery  could  never  hope  to  keep  up.  He 
avoided  everybody  except  Angus,  and  these  two  spent  every 
moment  of  their  time  in  the  repairing  of  the  damage  done  by 
the  strikers  to  the  farm. 

They  were  full  enough  weeks  for  everybody.  Events  were 
happening  in  almost  every  direction,  the  influence  of  which 
was  felt  throughout  the  whole  farming  world. 

The  strike  of  farm  hands  had  fallen  utterly  flat  since  Ley- 
burn  had  departed  from  Deep  Willows,  and  the  strikers  had 
discovered  that  harvesting  was  going  on  in  every  direction 
without  their  aid.  Instead  of  the  employers  being  brought 
to  their  knees  as  promised,  they,  the  strikers  at  Deep  Wil- 
lows, as  a  result  of  their  own  mischief,  found  themselves 
without  the  prospect  of  work,  and  a  winter  yet  to  face. 
When  they  attempted  to  gain  employment  on  other  farms, 
they  found  themselves  not  required.  Their  plight  was  bad, 
and,  in  very  little  time,  they  were  glad  enough  to  approach 
Deep  Willows,  as  Hendrie  had  prophesied,  pretty  well  on 
their  knees. 

Nor  did  they  come  in  vain.  In  less  than  a  week  a  hundred 
plows,  steam  and  horse,  were  at  work  burying  the  last  signs 
of  recent  destruction.  But  whatever  Hendrie's  feelings, 
whatever  his  attitude  toward  these  misguided  creatures, 
Angus  Moraine's  was  unmistakable.  He  was  a  born  marti- 
net, nor  could  he  forget  their  wanton  destruction  of  his  be- 
loved farm. 

Then,  too,  within  two  weeks  of  Leyburn's  release,  a  further 
lightening  of  the  labor  horizon  came.  The  significance  of  it 
was  lost  to  the  general  public.  Quite  suddenly  the  railroad 
itri'Ve  came  to  an  end.  The  world  was  told  that  a  compro- 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  437 

niise  had  been  effected  between  the  men  and  the  company. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  men  were  told  this  by  their  leaders. 

Hendrie  had  his  own  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  Angus 
Moraine  shared  them. 

"There's  only  one  thing  for  the  gopher  when  the  watch- 
dogs get  loose,  Angus,"  the  millionaire  said,  when  he  received 
the  confirmation  of  the  rumor.  "They  need  to  hunt  their 
holes— qui  ck . ' ' 

Angus  agreed,  but  his  eyes  only  half  smiled. 

"Sure,"  he  said. 

"Leyburn's  a  pretty  wise  guy,"  Hendrie  went  on  thought- 
fully. "Guess  the  bottom's  dropped  right  out  of  his  play. 
It'll  take  him  a  while  patching  it.  But  he'll  be  on  to  a  fresh 
mischief  later,  and  we'll  need  to  keep  a  skinned  eye.  But  I 
guess  it  won't  be  pla}dng  stocks  through  labor  strikes.  Say, 
he'll  quit  labor — after  a  while." 

How  true  was  Alexander  Hendrie's  surmise  time  soon 
showed.  Austin  Ley  burn  did  resign  from  his  official  capacity 
in  labor  circles.  And  within  a  year  he  suddenly  reappeared 
in  the  financial  world,  which  brought  him  under  closer  ob- 
servation by  the  wheat  operator. 

These  events  came,  passed,  and  soon  were  relegated  to  the 
mere  memory  of  a  stormy  period,  scarcely  pleasant  to  dwell 
upon.  In  the  meantime  Monica's  retarded  recovery  occu- 
pied every  mind  at  Deep  Willows.  It  was  so  wholly  inex- 
plicable. 

One  day,  toward  the  end  of  the  third  week,  Professor 
Hinkling,  who  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Phyllis,  opened 
his  heart  to  her  upon  the  subject. 

It  was  one  morning.  Phyllis  was  on  the  landing  not  far 
from  the  door  of  the  sick  room.  She  was  waiting,  as  was 
her  custom,  for  the  surgeon's  report.  He  had  been  with  his 
patient  longer  than  usual  and  the  girl  was  worried,  and 
more  than  usually  depressed.  All  sorts  of  fancies  had  taken 
hold  of  her  imagination,  and  she  feared  a  change  for  the  very 
worst.  At  last  the  door  opened  and  she  saw  the  man's  slim 
figure  emerge. 

He  saw  her,  too.  He  knew  she  would  be  there.  Now  his 
eyes  had  lost  their  usual  cheerfulness.  His  brows  were 
knitted,  and  he  looked  troubled.  He  shook  his  head  as  he 
came  up. 


438  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"No  improvement,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  in  his 
crisp  way. 

"None?     None  at  all?"     The  girl's  face  fell. 

The  man  shook  his  head  again. 

"It  is — quite  extraordinary,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "She 
is  comparatively  young.  I  should  say  she  was  normally  a — 
healthy  woman.  The  operation  was  absolutely  successful. 
She — she  ought  to  be  better — very  much  better.  It  almost 
seems — as  if  she  doesn't  want  to  recover." 

"Oh,  but,"  the  girl  cried  impulsively,  and  broke  off.  All 
of  a  sudden  the  man's  final  remark  became  full  of  significance 
to  her  woman's  mind. 

"But — what  ?"  inquired  the  man,  with  his  amiable  smile. 

"I— I  don't  know,"  declared  Phyllis  lamely. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"That  won't  do,"  he  said  kindly.  "You — you  were  think- 
ing of  something.  Something  suggested  by  my  .saying  she 
seemed  not  to  want  to  recover."  His  keen  eyes  were  search- 
ing her  strong,  young  face.  "Listen,  young  lady,"  he  went 
on,  after  a  pause,  while  the  girl  felt  as  though  he  were  read- 
ing her  through  and  through.  "We  surgeons  are  frequently 
up  against  psychological  forces  in  our  patients  which  not 
infrequently  undo  all  the  good  we  attempt  to  do.  Believe  me, 
a  skillful  operation  often  fails  by  reason  of  the  antagonistic 
forces  I  refer  to.  There  is  no  physical  reason  that  I  can  dis- 
cover why  Mrs.  Hendrie  should  not  recover.  Her  history — 
the  history  of  her  trouble — suggests  that  the  psychological 
side  has  been  instrumental  in  bringing  about  her — deplorable 
condition.  I  know  no  absolute  facts,  but  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  her  mental  attitude  is  such  as  to  retard,  even 
destroy  the  chances  of  her  recovery.  Can  you  tell  me?  But 
I  know  you  can." 

The  girl  suddenly  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands.  Her 
anxiety  became  almost  painful.  The  waiting  man  saw  that 
he  was  on  a  hot  scent,  and,  like  the  clever  man  he  was,  re- 
frained from  pressing  her. 

Presently  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  desperate  eyes. 

"Oh,  Professor,"  she  cried,  "I've  so — so  wanted  to  say 
something  to  you  before.  But  I've — I've  been  scared  to. 
You  see,  a — a  woman's  so  different  from  a  man — and — 
Monica  is — is  a  woman." 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  439 

"Quite  so." 

Phyllis  saw  the  smile  which  accompanied  the  surgeon's 
words,  and  her  helpless  groping  suddenly  passed.  She  stifled 
her  nervousness  and  spoke  quickly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I'm  silly,"  she  cried.  "But — maybe  no 
one's  told  you.  You  see,  it's  not  easy.  Yes,  Mrs.  Hendrie's 
trouble  I  think  was  largely  brought  on  by  grief." 

"Ah." 

"I  can't — can't  tell  you  what  it  was.  It's — it's  hers.  I 
have  no  right  to  tell  it — even  to  you.  Anyway,"  she  went 
on  quickly,  "that  grief  is  still  with  her — I  expect.  But  it 
could  be  removed  in — in  a  moment,"  she  added  quickly.  "It 
would  be  so  simple — if  the  excitement  were — 

The  surgeon's  eyes  lit. 

"Good  girl,"  he  cried,  in  his  quietly  cordial  fashion. 
"Now,  how  can  the  trouble  be — removed?" 

There  was  a  quiet  eagerness  in  the  man's  demand. 

"Why — by  letting  Frank  see  her,"  Phyllis  exclaimed.  "By 
letting  him  see  her  and  tell  her  that  he  is  here — living  here — 
here  for  good." 

The  man  reached  out,  and  taking  one  of  the  girl's  hands 
patted  it  gently. 

"Good  girl,"  he  said.  "Now,  just  run  off  and  bring  this — 
great  Frank.  Tell  him  what  you  like,  and  then  send  him  to 
me.  He  shall  see  Mrs.  Hendrie — alone.  And  trust  me  to 
ask  no  questions.  Maybe  we  shall  find  him  a  better  doctor 
than  any  of  us.  You  can  leave  the — excitement  to  me." 

So  it  came  about  that  the  long,  dreary  period  of  waiting 
for  improvement  was  suddenly  brought  to  an  end.  Frank 
was  the  first  person,  except  the  nurses,  allowed  into  the  sick 
room,  and  he  proved  the  tonic  she  needed. 

That  which  passed  between  the  two  remained  for  them 
alone,  but  the  effect  upon  Monica  was  miraculous.  Improve- 
ment started  from  that  moment,  and  Hinkling  moved  about 
the  house,  his  dark  eyes  shining  with  the  assurance  of 
victory. 

So,  at  last,  bright  days  came  again  at  Deep  Widows.  The 
influence  of  Monica's  sudden  move  forward  toward  recovery 
was  reflected  in  the  entire  household.  Even  Angus,  austere, 
"grouchy,"  felt  it,  for  the  millionaire  and  his  incessant  work 
no  longer  obsessed  him.  Even  he  was  glad  of  the  breath- 


440  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

ing  space  which  the  change  in  his  employer's  mood  gave 
him. 

The  news  traveled  like  lightning,  and,  two  days  later, 
when  the  great  surgeon  prepared  for  his  long-delayed  de- 
parture, everybody  in  the  neighborhood,  everybody  in  the 
house,  down  to  the  humblest  capacity  of  service,  knew  that 
the  mistress  of  Deep  Willows  was  marching  down  the  broad 
high  road  to  health  with  no  wavering  or  uncertain  steps. 

The  millionaire  accompanied  the  surgeon  to  Calford  when 
the  day  came  for  departure,  and  during  the  long  run  in  the 
automobile,  in  spite  of  his  change  of  feelings,  in  spite  of  his 
great  thankfulness  that  he  was  leaving  Monica  behind  him 
basking  in  the  companionship  of  the  man  and  girl  whom  she 
regarded  with  all  the  affection  of  a  mother,  he  was  unusually 
silent. 

The  two  men  were  lounging  back  in  the  open  car.  One, 
at  least,  was  reveling  in  the  sweet  fresh  air  of  the  prairie 
lands  as  he  sped  upon  the  first  stage  of  his  journey  back  to 
the  crowded  streets  of  the  city  to  which  he  belonged. 

"I  think  it  will  be  best  to  give  her  a  complete  change,"  the 
surgeon  said,  after  a  long,  thoughtful  silence.  When  I  say 
complete  I  mean  Europe,  or  travel  about  generally.  Egypt, 
Palestine.  Even  China,  or  Japan.  Take  her  completely  out 
of  herself,  and  every  surrounding  she's  used  to.  There's 
nothing  like  comfortable  travel  in  easy  stages  for  a  woman 
who's  gone  through  what  Mrs.  Hendrie  has." 

"I'd  thought  of  it,"  said  the  millionaire,  settling  himself 
more  deeply  on  the  wide  seat. 

The  surgeon  smiled. 

"Then  put  it  into  practice,"  he  returned. 

Hendrie  nodded.  He  was  gazing  out  ahead  over  the  long 
even  trail.  There  was  a  grave  look  in  his  steady  eyes. 

"Say,"  he  inquired,  a  moment  later,  "guess  she's  pretty 
strong — now?  No  danger  of  a  relapse?" 

"None  whatever — I  should  say." 

The  little  man's  eyes  were  surveying  the  other  specula- 
tively. 

"I'm — glad,"  said  Hendrie,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "None, 
eh?" 

"Humanly  speaking — none." 

Hendrie  nodded  with  his  eyes  averted. 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  441 

Presently  he  turned,  and  the  two  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  as  men  will  who  understand  each  other. 

"She's  got  to  hear  some — news,"  Hendrie  said,  in  his 
blunt  fashion.  "Likely  it  may  knock  her — hard." 

The  surgeon  sat  up. 

"About  that  boy — Frank?     Anything  against  him?" 

Hendrie  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.     "It's— about  me." 

Professor  Hinkling  sat  back  in  his  seat  with  an  assured 
smile. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  easily.  "It's  only  that  boy 
matters — just  now." 

The  evening  sun  was  streaming  in  through  the  wide  bow 
window  of  the  boudoir,  lighting  up  the  delicate  shades  of 
color  in  the  costly  decorations  with  a  suggestion  of  spring, 
rather  than  the  mature  days  of  early  autumn  which  were 
already  upon  the  world.  There  was  hope  in  the  aspect  of 
the  room,  hope  in  the  brilliancy  of  the  sunlight,  hope,  too, 
engendered  of  the  knowledge  that  here  was  no  longer  a  sick 
room,  but  a  delightful  harmonious  resting  place  where  con- 
valescence was  to  be  converted  into  complete  restoration  to 
health. 

A  large  lounge  filled  the  space  beneath  the  window  where 
the  patient  might  lie,  or  sit,  drinking  in  the  health-giving 
fragrance  of  the  pure  prairie  air ;  where  the  sight  of  the  wide 
blue  heavens,  with  their  robes  of  fleecy  white,  might  well  in- 
spire the  desire  for  perfect  health;  where  the  golden  sun  in 
all  its  glory  might  bathe  the  ailing  body  in  its  generous  light, 
and  drive  back  the  grim  shadows  of  sickness  to  the  realms 
of  darkness  where  they  rightly  belonged. 

The  room  was  littered  with  all  those  things  which  told  of 
kindly  hearts  and  loving  hands.  This  temporary  imprison- 
ment must  be  made  something  more  than  tolerable.  It  must 
be  made  a  memory  for  after  life  to  look  back  upon,  not  with 
shuddering  repulsion,  but  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  the 
generous  love  striving  to  bring  happiness  once  more  into  an 
ailing  life. 

There  were  flowers,  wonderful  and  rare;  flowers  which  had 
traveled  leagues  and  leagues  to  bring  their  message  of  hope 
of  summer  days  to  come,  and  delight  the  eye  with  their 


442  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

wonders  of  delicate  coloring,  and  ravish  the  senses  with  their 
subtle  fragrance.  There  were  books,  too,  books  full  of  life's 
little  romances  to  inspire  that  joy  of  thought  and  sympathy, 
for  others  less  blessed  in  a  struggling  world.  Fruits,  de- 
licious fruits  from  the  most  extravagant  and  luxurious  cor- 
ners of  the  earth.  A  hundred  and  one  things  there  were 
waiting  upon  Monica's  invalid  whim,  and,  if  need  be,  there 
would  be  a  hundred  and  one  more.  The  wealth  of  one  of  the 
world's  rich  men  was  at  her  feet.  She  was  his  idol.  Nothing 
should  be  denied.  No  desire  of  hers  should  remain  unfulfilled, 
if  only  it  might  contribute  to  the  restoration  of  that  perfect 
health  from  which  she  had  so  long  been  separated. 

Hendrie  was  with  her  now  as  she  reclined  upon  the  lounge. 
She  was  still  a  shadow  of  her  former  self,  but  her  eyes  were 
alight  with  a  wonderful  peace  of  mind,  and  the  joy  of  living. 
She  was  propped  up  with  soft  cushions,  facing  her  husband, 
who  was  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  with  his  hands  clasped 
loosely,  his  elbows  resting  upon  his  parted  knees. 

He  had  been  talking  for  a  long  time.  He  was  still  talking 
in  a  voice  that  was  unusually  subdued  and  gentle.  He  was 
carrying  out  his  deliberate  purpose  to  its  last  detail.  He  was 
telling  her  the  story  of  that  past ;  that  past  so  full  of  pas- 
sionate wrong-doing ;  so  full  of  disgraceful,  but  strong  man- 
hood. He  had  shirked  none  of  it.  By  not  one  fraction  did 
he  deviate  from  the  bald  truth,  however  ugly  it  might  ap- 
pear, in  whatever  painful  light  it  might  discover  him.  By 
not  one  touch  of  the  brush  of  falsehood  did  he  seek  to  gloss 
over  the  harsh  surface  of  his  own  ruthless  acts.  It  was  a 
time  when  only  truth  could  serve,  and  he  had  steeled  his 
heart  to  abide  by  the  result. 

Just  as  he  had  always  been  the  unyielding  man,  driving 
straight  to  the  goal  of  purpose,  so  he  was  equally  unyielding 
to  the  temptation  to  screen  himself,  equally  strong  in  his 
frank  self-accusing.  He  knew  no  middle  course.  There  was 
no  middle  course  for  him.  Such  did  not  exist. 

He  had  brought  his  story  down  to  the  final  details  of  the 
recent  happenings  at  Deep  Willows. 

"Mon,"  he  said,  gazing  straight  into  the  unwavering  eyes 
he  loved,  and  speaking  with  gentle  earnestness,  "you  must 
judge  me  as  you  will.  I  tell  you,  cost  me  what  it  may,  your 
judgment  goes.  The  things  I  have  done,  and  been,  may 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  443 

seem  unforgivable  to  you.  It  would  surely  be  a  miracle  if 
they  did  not.  But  before  you  sit  in  judgment  on  me  you 
must  know  all  you  have  meant  to  my  life.  You  must  know 
something  of  the  depth  of  my  love  for  you." 

He  thrust  one  hand  into  his  coat  pocket  and  withdrew  the 
revolver  it  had  contained  for  so  many  weeks  now. 

"See  this  gun?"  he  went  on.  "It's  loaded  in  every  cham- 
ber. No,  don't  be  afraid,  dear,"  he  smiled  as  a  look  of 
trouble  crept  into  his  wife's  eyes.  "I  had  no  thought  of 
suicide.  That  is  an  act  of  cowardice;  and,  whatever  my 
shortcomings,  I  am  not  afraid  to  face  trouble  when  it  comes 
along.  But  I  want  to  let  you  see  into  my  heart  and  mind, 
and  know  the  man  I  am.  That  gun  was  meant  for  Austin 
Leyburn.  The  man  I  had  wronged,  and  who  was  bent  on 
revenge.  His  vengeance  meant  nothing  to  me  personally. 
If  he  had  succeeded  in  ruining  me  utterly  I  could  still  have 
laughed  at  him — so  long  as  I  had  you.  But  all  unconsciously 
he  had  made  it  possible  that  the  help  you  needed,  the  help 
that  was  to  save  your  precious  life  to  me,  might  not  be 
forthcoming.  Had  you  died,  I  should  have  shot  him  dead. 
Furthermore,  I  should  have  been  glad  that  my  hand  had 
crushed  out  his  life.  There  is  nothing  more  for  me  to  say 
now,  dear,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "You  know  me  now 
as  I  am,  or  at  least  as  I  know  myself  to  me.  The  future,  my 
future  is  in  your  hands." 

He  sat  up  and  returned  the  ominous  weapon  to  his  pocket, 
while  Monica  remained  silent.  Her  eyes  were  no  longer  upon 
him.  Their  lids  were  lowered  to  hide  the  thought  so  busy 
behind  them. 

The  man  glanced  at  her.  Illness  had  left  its  mark.  Lines 
of  suffering  had  drawn  themselves  about  the  corners  of  her 
beautiful  mouth,  where  lines  had  not  been  before.  Deep 
shadows  were  gathered  about  her  eyes,  and  the  hollowed 
cheeks  displayed  the  ravages  of  ill-health. 

But,  even  so,  her  beauty  had  in  no  wise  departed.  To 
this  man,  at  least,  there  was  no  difference  from  the  superb 
beauty  once  hers.  It  was  the  woman  he  loved,  the  soul  and 
mind.  Those  things  which  he  felt  no  ravages  of  illness  could 
ever  change. 

He  waited  wordless.  Of  that  which  his  heart  might  fear 
he  gave  no  sign.  It  was  his  way. 


444  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

At  last  Monica  sighed.  Then  her  eyes  were  slowly  raised, 
and  for  one  long,  ardent  moment  she  gazed  upon  the  man 
whose  blemishes  were  so  many  and  whose  virtues  were  so  few, 
and  yet  whose  manhood  was  far,  far  greater  to  her  than 
that  of  any  other  she  had  ever  known.  She  saw  in  him  that 
wonderful  thing  which  few  women  can  look  upon  unmoved. 
She  saw  courage  and  manhood,  and  she  bowed  her  woman's 
love  of  all  the  virtues  to  the  instinct  of  her  sex.  She  would 
not,  could  not  judge.  Nature  had  created  in  her  an  ardent 
woman's  soul,  full  of  the  power  of  love,  regardless  of  the 
right  and  wrong  of  her  feelings.  She  had  loved  this  man, 
and  it  was  beyond  her  power  to  recall,  or  change  those  feel- 
ings. So  her  words  came,  thrilling  with  gratitude  and  love 
for  the  man  who  knew  no  other  life  than  at  her  side. 

"I'm  glad,  dear,  so  glad,"  she  cried  passionately.  "Oh," 
she  went  on,  with  a  ring  of  wonderful  delight  which  carried 
joy  into  the  man's  stormy  heart,  and  set  his  every  sense 
thrilling,  "I'm  glad  of  it  all.  I'm  glad  I  am  here — you  are 
near  me.  I'm  glad  that  this  wonderful  evening  sun  is  shining, 
and  that  my  eyes  can  look  upon  it.  I  am  glad  that  I  am 
breathing  this  fresh,  pure  air,  and  that  God  has  seen  fit  to 
let  you  drag  me  back  from  those  dark  and  painful  ways. 
But  more  than  all  I  am  glad  of  you,  Alec,  glad  that  I  can 
reach  out  and  touch  you — so." 

She  thrust  out  one  almost  transparent  hand,  which  was 
seized  and  gently  clasped  in  both  her  husband's. 

"It  is  good,  dear,  to  feel  your  great,  strong,  warm  hands 
in  mine.  It  is  good  to  know  they  are  always  with  me,  ready 
to  fight  for  me,  ready  to  caress  me.  Lift  me  up,  dear — so." 

The  man  reached  out  and  supported  her  frail  body,  so 
that  her  fair  head  rested  against  his  shoulder  as  he  drew  her 
to  him. 

"So,  yes,  it  is  good  to  have  you  with  me,"  she  went  on 
happily.  "Now  kiss  me,  dear ;  kiss  me,  and  tell  me  that  the 
shadows  are  all  gone  by,  that  never  again,  so  long  as  we  live, 
shall  we  let  others  replace  them.  So — yes."  She  sighed 
in  perfect  contentment  and  happiness.  "God  has  been  very 
good  to  us — far,  far  better  than  either  of  us  deserve. " 

So  there  fell  a  wonderful,  perfect  silence  upon  the  room. 
The  great  sun  beyond  the  window  lolled  heavily  to  his  rest, 
and  the  shadows  grew  out  of  the  remoter  corners  of  the  room. 

t 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  445 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  everywhere;  a  wonderful,  perfect 
peace. 

And  after  a  while,  a  long,  long  while  it  seemed,  the 
woman  stirred  in  her  husband's  arms.  Presently  she 
looked  up. 

Her  happy,  wandering  gaze  had  drifted  to  the  window 
and  beyond.  There,  in  the  darkening  shadows  of  the  skele- 
ton woodlands,  she  beheld  two  figures  strolling  idly,  hand  in 
hand.  The  growing  twilight  left  them  clearly  outlined 
against  the  blackened  trees.  The  man's  great  figure  towered 
over  the  slim  woman  by  his  side,  who  was  still  by  no  means 
dwarfed.  Monica  thrilled  with  delight  as  she  beheld  them. 
They  were  those  whom  she  loved  best  in  the  world,  next  to 
this  man  at  her  side. 

"Look,  Alec,"  she  cried.  "Look  there.  They,  too,  have 
at  last  found  perfect  happiness.  Soon — soon  they  will  be 
launching  their  little  craft  upon  the  world's. troubled  waters. 
Soon  they,  too,  will  know  the  real  meaning  of  life.  We  have 
learned  together,  dear,  haven't  we?  And  now — now  we  can 
sit  by,  and  watch  them,  and  help  them  launch  their  little 
boat.  Beyond  that  we  cannot  go.  Theirs  it  is  to  set  their 
course  and  keep  it.  Theirs  it  is  to  put  their  hands  to  the 
tiller  and  weather  every  storm.  And  they  are  many — very, 
very,  many,  even  for  the  most  fortunate.  God  be  with 
them." 

The  man  was  watching  the  idly  wandering  lovers  with  eyes 
of  deep  affection. 

"He's  a  good  boy,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  was  full  of 
paternal  pride.  "There's  no  bad  streak  in  him,  as  there  is 

in "  He  sighed.  "I'm  glad  of  it.  I  want  to  wonder 

when  I  think  what  he's  suffered  at  my  hands.  And  after  all 
these  years  he's  come  to  me.  It's  good,  Mon.  It's  good  to 
think  of. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "and  what  a  girl  for  any 
man.  I  feel  glad,  so  glad,  I  don't  just  know  how  to  speak  it. 
But  I  can  do  a  lot.  Say,  when  it  comes  to  launching  that 
boat,  I  don't  guess  they  need  to  lay  a  hand  to  it.  That's 
right  up  to  me." 

Monica  gazed  up  into  his  strong  face.  Emotion  was 
working  behind  that  wonderful  mask.  She  knew.  But  she 
would  not  let  him  know  that  she  could  read  so  deeply. 


446  THE    WAY    OF    THE    STRONG 

"How — how,  shall  you  help  to — launch  that  boat,  dear?" 
she  asked  gently. 

The  man  smiled,  and  his  eyes  were  shining  with  generous 
impulse. 

"How?  Why,  he  comes  into  my  business  on  a  half  share. 
You  see,  he's  in  my  life  on  a  half  share  already." 

Monica's  eyes  thanked  him.     He  wanted  no  words. 

"And— little  Phyllis— Phyl?"  she  asked  with  a  tender  in- 
flection on  the  familiar  abbreviation. 

The  man's  smile  broadened. 

"Why,  Phyl?"  he  cried.  "For  Phyl,  whatever  you  say 
goes.  Guess  I'd  like  to  hand  her  the  house  in  Winnipeg  as  a 
present — on  my  own — though.  She's  just  worth — every- 
thing." 

Monica  nodded. 

"We  have  many  debts  to  pay,"  she  said.  "There's  that 
other,  too." 

"Other?"  For  a  moment  Hendrie  looked  at  her  in  some 
doubt.  Then  he  smiled  again.  "Ah — you  mean — Angus." 

"Yes,  your  beloved — Angus." 

There  was  a  note  of  gentle  raillery  in  Monica's  reply. 

The  man  nodded. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  with  unmistakable  conviction.  Then  he 
added:  "The  thing  he's  yearning  for  is  this  farm.  He's  just 
loved  it  years.  Guess  my  attorney's  fixing  it  over  to  him — 
right  now." 

The  man's  prodigal  generosity  left  Monica  speechless. 

"He's  worth  it,"  he  went  on.  "He's  worth  all  I  can  do." 
Then  he  smiled.  "You  see,  he's  a  feller  whose  rough  ex- 
terior conceals  a  deal  of  what's  worth  while." 

The  woman's  eyes  were  again  turned  toward  the  window, 
and  the  two  figures  beyond  it.  Their  magnetism  was  irre- 
sistible. 

"Those  who  possess  most  of — what  is  really  worth  while, 
often  contrive  to  hide  it  under  an  exterior  of  denial,"  she 
said.  Then,  as  an  afterthought.  "It's — it's  the  way  of  the 
strong." 

The  man  agreed  and  his  smile  was  almost  humorous. 

"Guess  the  strong  folks  often  find  themselves  mighty 
short  of  the  more — delicate  virtues,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"Seems  a  pity — eh,  Mon?  Guess  if  things  weren't  that  way, 

\ 


HENDRIE'S    WAY  447 

we'd  be  having  a  world  full  of  perfect  men,  hopping  around 
like  rabbits,  and  chasing  glory  by  the  light  of  their  own 
halos." 

Monica  laughed,  too,  and  finally  smiled  up  into  his  face  as 
she  nestled  closer  to  him. 

"I  don't  think  halos  are  becoming — anyway,"  she  said. 
"I'm  glad  you  don't  wear — a  halo." 


M18062 


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